


There And Back Again

by doctor_jasley, gala_apples



Category: Bandom, Black Cards, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, Hush Sound, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is..., The Cab, The Sounds, The Used
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Dragons, Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M, Quests, Selkies, Sex Pollen, Sirens, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been four years since the first tear between Earth and Otherworld opened, and in that time the travel has only been one way; supposedly mythical creatures coming in and wreaking havoc throughout the continents. Or at least that’s what the OEA would have citizens believe. When a tear opens in Sherman High School and the entire Chamber choir goes missing and no one remembers them even existing in the first place, the truth becomes known. Kidnapping Humans is a frequent occurrence, and part of the OEA’s job is to keep it a secret.</p><p>Pete is not about to lose Patrick forever, and nor is Mikey with Gerard. After it becomes obvious the OEA neither cares nor plans on doing anything, the friends of the choir decide to band together and travel into Otherworld to save their loved ones. It’s completely uncharted territory, but how hard can it be to track down a few Humans in a land of Pixies and Centaurs?</p><p>Unfortunately for the questers and Chamber choir alike, childhood research all come up lies in practice. Dwarves are not like Snow White Dwarves, Mermaids are not Ariel, and Dragons are not Tamora Pierce Dragons. Still, it’s okay to be in over your head when you know someone is waiting on the other side of the ocean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To elaborate the warnings, Spencer/Ryan is the sex pollen based dub-con, the slavery is work based, not sexual, and there are plenty of original characters deaths, but no bandom deaths.
> 
> This was written for bandom big bang, and as such a mix can be found [here](http://doctor-apple.livejournal.com/8831.html).

Spencer’s going to kill his best friend. If Ryan has them run through this song one more time, he’s not going to be held responsible for his actions. There’s a pretty good chance Brent will help, or at least keep him from getting caught. Spencer’s not sure about Brendon being any help with the whole plan. Logic says he should be, Ryan’s stopped playing so he can needle Brendon about pronunciation for the millionth time this evening. But Brendon’s probably too nice to kill someone.

After a minute more of keeping beat, Spencer gives up playing. No one else is, so why should he? Sometimes Spencer wonders how Ryan’s not been strangled to death before today when he gets on rolls like these. 

“You know what? We’ve been doing this forever! I’m getting tired of this, honestly I am.” _Ryan’s_ getting tired. Jesus. Spencer sort of wants to bash his head against something. Unfortunately the nearest thing is the cymbals, and if he makes a clatter of noise Ryan will probably get mad at him for conspiring with Brendon against him. “I just. Okay. So we’ll stop, and think about what we’ve learned, and we’ll be much better for the gig on Saturday.”

For a brief moment Spencer can feel empathy for Ryan. It’s their first paying performance, it makes sense that they have to be perfect. Then Ryan ruins it by talking more. 

“Brent, no playing Guitar Hero.” If Ryan bothered to look over at Brent he’d catch the bassist rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t and neither Spencer nor Brendon are about to rat him out. “Spencer, ice your wrists when you get home.” Like hell he will. He doesn’t even like holding Slurpees, the cold makes his fingers itch. “Brendon, rest your voice. No singing until Saturday!”

Brendon makes a Dealing With Ryan Ross rookie mistake. He verbally disagrees rather than keeping it to himself. “Uh.”

“What?” Ryan turns, pinning Brendon with a gaze akin to a vulture and a dying wildebeest. 

“Dude, there’s a choir concert on Thursday. Chamber choir is doing five pieces. We have rehearsals every day this week.”

Ryan frowns. Brendon doesn’t shrink nearly as much as Ryan would want him too. He’s probably conditioned against it. Spencer and Brent flinch under a glare dripping with hate because their parents and other friends like them. Brendon doesn’t have other friends, and the less said about his parents the better. Nasty looks probably occur a lot more in his world.

Spencer’s expecting a full on tantrum from Ryan when they’re interrupted by the doorknob rattling. It doesn’t make sense. They’re in his grandma’s garage. It can’t be a noise complaint. His grandma is nearly deaf, and her back yard is big enough that the next door neighbours shouldn’t be able to hear someone being decimated with a chainsaw. Suddenly the metal hinges separate from the cheap wood of the door and clatter noisily to the ground. Instead of falling inward or outward, the door folds into itself until it’s compact. Slivers of gloss shake away from the wood and pepper the ground in flakes of plastic colored white that make the nails that are now sitting in a pile on the ground look like frost covered grey river pebbles. 

A delicate, tan hand grasps the cube of wood that’s left. The other hand wipes off the residual gloss. Spencer’s eyes refocus to include the body beyond the hands cradling the mutilated door. Standing in the doorway is a naked woman. Dark, dark green leaves tangle in her hair and a stray vine curls around one of her sun baked legs. Not that Spencer’s staring enough to know that, or anything remotely close to that for the record. Dust and dirt cling to her feet. When she moves forward, the square of what used to be the door under one arm almost as if she’s carrying a small box, tiny grains fall off. She’s not happy and Spencer has a moment to realize ‘oh shit Dryad’ before she sprints forward.

For a moment his face is in her breasts, and for a moment he thinks maybe she wants- Not that he _would_. You’d have to be a real deviant to want-. And then his palms are burning from the friction of her pulling his drumsticks out of his closed fists. She begins to step back, his expensive, ten dollars a stick drumsticks in her hand. 

“Hey, those are-”

She bares her teeth, mouth stretching obscenely wide. They’re glistening white tombstones, she looks like she could devour him in three quick chomps. Spencer decides against finishing his protest.

It’s not until she’s left the now doorless garage that Spencer breaks the silence with a “Motherfucker!” His friends all fall into hysterics, because his friends are fucking douchebags. There’s no question Grandma and Mom will blame him for this, even though even the top scientists have come no closer to figuring out the Otherworld leaks than they were five years ago when they started. Brent is breying his stupid horse laugh, and Spencer goes to throw a drumstick at him before he remembers he can’t. “Motherfucker!” he repeats.

“Don’t see why you’re so mad. You gave her the sticks.”

“What?”

“You against a skinny naked girl. You could have taken her down, instead you let her walk away. You made your choice dude.”

“I didn’t fucking see you attacking an Otherworlder!”

“She didn’t go after my bass,” Brent shrugs like it’s that simple. 

“All three of you are chipping in for another door and coming over tomorrow after school to help install it.” Spencer knows the words are a lie as he says them. Brendon can’t afford to chip in fifty bucks, and he works every evening they don’t have a practice scheduled. Ryan may or may not have the money, depending on how far into a binge his dad is. Brent can probably be guilted into handing over money, but he’ll be utterly useless at trying to attach a door. Still, he feels better for saying it. Sometimes spreading the blame is the only thing you can do when an Otherworlder comes.

Ryan shrugs. “At least the Dryad didn’t kill Brendon.”

“I’m pretty stoked about not being dead, gotta say. And I mean, the last time I had an encounter I totally coulda died.” Spencer’s heard the story a dozen times in the last month, but he lets Brendon repeat it without grimacing. He’s a good friend like that. “I mean, I was locking up the Smoothie Hut, waving at the bus driver down the street trying to get his attention so he wouldn’t take off without me, and a fucking hole opens up and a Sea Dragon sits on the damn bus. I mean it was dead by the time the OEA got there, but there were a lot of dead people underneath him.”

“Still doesn’t beat the time me and Mom and Dad were at Disneyland and Fairies attacked. Best sex ed. ever.” Brent snorts. Spencer’s heard that story a lot too, but more often it’s during sleepovers, when no one notices where your hand is inside your sleeping bag.

“Okay, official cessation on practice. Who wants to watch Drawn Together?”

“Cessation? Really, Ross?” But Spencer follows Ryan out the door and the guys follow behind him. While Ryan queues up an episode Spencer can text his dad and ask how they’re supposed to block the door overnight. Ryan would probably have heart palpitations if their instruments got stolen before their first gig.

*

It’s kind of weird that Gerard’s not sitting at the lunch table when Ray finally gets through the line at the drink machine. All around the country principals are trying to deny students rights to sugary, caffeine laden drinks, but for now at least Sherman High School is safe. Ray doesn’t eat much at lunch. There’s no reason to when he’s forced into a family ‘dinner’ at four pm exactly every day of the week. Some days, when he or Lou have been out overnight, it’s essentially steak and potatoes and corn for breakfast. Food or not though, he always grabs a bottle of Vanilla Coke at lunch. 

“Where’s Gerard at?”

“Dunno. Skipped third period. Good time management, we just got in-class time for our essay.” Bob rolls his eyes, and Ray nods his head in acknowledgement. In class time means writing it all by hand and going home and transcribing it. It’s easier to just type homework up at home.

Mikey shrugs. “He came to school for first period at least. Fuckin’ guy didn’t have to go to Geography cause Chamber’s performing somewhere Thursday. Parker’s calling practices every five minutes.” 

If Ray had known that Mr Parker considered it his right as choir teacher to pull any and all students out of class to rehearse whenever he deemed it appropriate, he probably would have taken the course freshman year. But it’s too late now -most free choice subjects work on a pre-req system- and Chamber choir’s the one with all the special rewards anyway. Out of a school of almost two thousand, only twenty get in; ten boys and ten girls. Each year everyone has to audition anew, seniority means nothing. It’s the second year Gerard’s been in, and knowing how much Geography sucks, he’s certainly reaping the benefits.

“I’m gonna go find him.” Ray doesn’t explain himself, just twists the cap back on and slings his backpack back on.

“Check the library,” Frank suggests. Ray nods, even though it was already on his list. Some places are just obvious. Not checking the library would be stupid. Ray’s first going to check the library, the art room, and the bathrooms near the art room. Those are the most logical places Gerard could be at this time of the day if choir practice is over with. 

The halls are mostly empty of students. Everyone’s either in the cafeteria or skulking in one of the classrooms. Occasionally he’ll pass someone and ask them if they’ve seen Gerard Way. So far all Ray’s gotten are confused blank stares, especially when he adds a qualifier about the Chamber choir. It’s like none of them even know the school has an award winning performing choir. It’s weird. Seriously, how could they not know? You’d have to be living under a rock to not know.

When he gets to the library the doors are closed and the off-white blinds hanging over the glass are pulled down and closed. The handle’s locked. This day is just getting more and more confusing. The library is rarely if ever locked during lunch. Mr. Kris likes to keep it open for the few students who like to study rather than eat when lunch period rolls around. Ray’s heard their librarian prattle on about the merits of learning and reading when he was a freshman. The few times the library has been off limits there’s been a sign taped to the door apologizing and directing the students to one of the study rooms if they needed reference materials or the use of a computer, but today there’s not even that.

Library firmly checked off his list, Ray decides to drop by the study room closest the library just to be safe. It’s empty except for one senior filling out what’s most likely college forms, if the look of frustrated concentration on the girl’s face is anything to go by. He’s thinking about asking her if she’s seen Gerard when her phone vibrates and she answers it snappily. He makes the better decision of backing away. He can always ask the next person he sees to make up for not interrupting angry senior chick.

Mrs. Zell frowns and gives Ray a negative answer when he pops into the art room to see if Gerard’s hiding out there. She hasn’t seen Gee today and she was apparently expecting him to swing by in between classes after choir practice left out. It’s almost as if the world’s conspiring against Ray's need to talk D&D with his DM. 

The boy’s bathroom holds no keys to unlocking where Gerard is either. The two boys crouched under the sinks snickering with each other while they flip through a dirty magazine haven’t seen Gerard. Ray knows for a fact that Lee has math with Gerard yet the guy gives him a befuddled look when Ray asks him. Kenny -at least Ray thinks the other guy’s name is Kenny- pokes Lee in the side and they start bickering about one of the skin magazine models. Ray doesn’t know anything about magazine porn, so he leaves.

Empty handed and sort of confused, Ray decides to just head back to the cafeteria. Maybe Gee’s shown up while he was gone. That would be Ray’s luck, spend all lunch period looking for Gerard only for the guy to show up for lunch late. 

He’s not there, but someone’s put a half full bottle of Vanilla Coke in front of his spot. It’s probably Bob. Once or twice a month he can’t remember what a soda tastes like and buys one, and once or twice a month his mother’s anti-sugar home regime works it’s magic and he gags trying to swallow the syrupy fizz. Ray tosses a thanks in his direction and makes to sit in the slim space between Frank and Mikey. Just as Ray’s settling on the hard plastic covered bench, Erik comes over, frown etched into his face. “Tell Way I’m not doing his homework again.”

Mikey’s thumbs move quickly against his phone as he says “Pete just asked me if I’ve seen Patrick or Gabe. Neither made it to second period.”

Ray’s confusion deepens, gets sharp with an edge of worry. Gerard is almost failing second period science. Even if he did blow off English with Bob, he’s gotten more than enough concerned lectures to know he can’t afford to miss any science. Even Mr Parker knows that, though according to Gerard he complains profusely the few times it’s come up.

“Wait, so Gee didn’t show up to a class you know he has to go to, and you didn’t tell anyone?” Before Erik has a chance to speak for his actions Frank punches him in the shoulder. “Asshole! What if he’s really missing? What if a fucking troll got him?”

Fuck. There is nothing about this that is good. “I’m gonna go home, see if Lars knows anything. One of you call the OEA.”

“Pete did.” Right, Ray should have figured that. Like Pete would let anything happen to Patrick without raising hell. Though, as a matter of pride, hopefully not as much as he and Mikey and Frank and Bob will for Gerard. He is not disappearing without a fight.

By the time he’s home Mikey has texted him three more times. Bebe and Maja are missing too, and the OEA has stormed the front doors and headed straight for the office. Ray supposes he should consider the case in capable hands. Go back to school and not skip the last three periods and get in trouble with his parents. But he can’t. He needs to know what’s going on, and the best chance he has of that is Lars.

“Hey Lars,” he bellows as he starts climbing the stairs to his room. If Ray was home in the middle of the day he’d be using the time to nap, but he knows Lars will be awake. Lars doesn’t sleep much, some kind of altered hibernation keeping him awake for months only to recuperate in a week of nearly coma-like sleep. “My friend Gee disappeared. Most people don’t remember he ever existed. Is there something from your side that could cause invisibility, or memory loss, or something?” Opening his bedroom door his voice is almost back to normal volume, only a little loud in case Lars is nestled in Ray’s headphones.

The dragon doesn’t quite have the arm length to cross them, but they hang in a distinctly irritable fashion. “No? The fuck. Why do you always assume I know everything about my damn world? You don’t see me asking you about a tree rat that’s only found in Moscow.”

Ray sighs. He’s got a point. “Look, I’m sorry. Overgeneralising, I know. Not all Americans have guns, not all Canadians play hockey, and you don’t know every being in Otherworld. But seriously, any ideas? Gee’s freakin’ missing, and if offending you means we find him, well, fuck it. You know?”

“Just him? Or others? ‘Cuz Goblins kidnap and sometimes they have amulets that fuck with your head, but it’s only ever one at a time. They’re only thigh high, a whole hoard could still only drag off one.”

“Five, at least. Mikey’ll text if there’s more.”

“Yeah, there’s no way a hole was open long enough to have like fifty Goblins swarm through. Not that more than fifteen would ever be in the same place anyway, unless they were in the middle of a skirmish when a hole opened. Sorry man, I’m tapped. Wanna rock out?”

“No man. You don’t have to use the ‘phones though.” 

Lars quirks his tail in his version of a shrug and unplugs the headphones from Ray’s laptop so Unforgiven III fills the room. Ray closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch Lars spinning in a circle as fast as he can fly. He’s not in the mood for one being moshing. Gerard is missing.

*

Pete sticks the end of the cigarette in his mouth, more because it’s a place to put it than because he’s sucking a drag. Normally under the flourishing dollar per smoke black market of Sherman he’d smoke it to the filter, trying to get every penny out of it. Right now he doesn’t even know why he lit it. He doesn’t remember pulling out his wallet where the cigarettes live in the cash compartment and the mini-lighter in the change compartment. He splays his fingers and curves them, raises his arms and tries to scratch the air open. He can’t be the only one that’s tried it, he’s probably not even in the first million. But god does he want the air to rip open. Just this once, if something could go the way he wanted it...

 **mtngs strtn**

Sometimes he wonders if Mikey’s phone just doesn’t have any vowels at all. Patrick’s constantly complaining about his incoherency in texts, but at least he uses the occasional E or A. If Patrick was here and Pete was bored he’d show Patrick just to watch him bitch. If Patrick was here Pete wouldn’t even be at this meeting.

Well, yes, he actually would. Because Gabe and Bebe and Maja are still missing, as are ten other members of the Chamber choir. But he wouldn’t be biting through the cigarette to taste tobacco. Pete spits the torn cigarette on the stained cement, off colour from decades of saliva and flicked ashes and spilled drinks and dropped gum. The section tells a story. Some other time Pete would care.

Before he goes in, he scrapes his knuckles against the brick wall, hard. It’s one of the clearest memories of his childhood. _Crying? I’ll give you something to cry about._ He’s a grown up now, knows how to give himself that instead of waiting for an adult to notice his existence and disapprove.

Principal Saunders is standing on the drama stage a row of adults sitting behind him. The last time Pete was here was for a talent show. Half his friends were doing shit; William had poetry and Ryland was being Guy again, and Patrick was supposed to sing but bailed with last second nerves. Last time was pretty much awesome. This time not so much.

There’s an empty seat beside William. Pete sits there. There’s an empty seat beside Mr and Mrs Stump, who don’t even seem to notice they’re supposed to be divorced, they’re holding hands. He’s not sure if they did it automatically for Patrick, or if they did it for him -he’s kind of a second son. Either way he can’t handle filling that space.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. I fear to inform you that several students-” Pete’s fingers curl into fists. It’s not several, it’s fucking fourteen. “have disappeared. Upon being informed of said missing students, I immediately contacted the Otherworld Encounter Agency, as is the policy of Sherman High School, the Parent Board, and district three.” Pete grits his teeth. This meeting should be less about Saunders covering his fucking ass and more about rescuing Patrick. And everyone else. “Now, some of you may be confused, may not believe we have missing students. This is due to the nature of the beast, of which the agents will explain more.”

A petite brunette takes the place of Principle Saunders in front of everyone. Her hair falls into her face for several seconds before she sweeps it out of the way. Her clothing is professional, all the colors drab and lifeless. A white badge hangs from the left pocket of her suit jacket. There’s no way Pete can read it from where he’s sitting, but the woman has to be an OEA employee. Either she’s an agent or works in their public relations department, perhaps even human resources. What matters is that she’s addressing them and Pete needs to know what they’re doing to bring Patrick and everyone else back.

“....we know there are those of you who are worried about your friends and relatives. Rest assured the OEA is doing everything in their power to follow every lead available to us so we can bring your loved one back safely. Know that this could take time though. The creatures suspected in this kidnapping are highly attracted to vocal harmony and one of their defense slash predatory mechanisms is to wipe all memory of their prey from the minds of those who haven’t heard those taken sing recently. With so few people available to question, our investigation will take more time than one in which all of the knowledge can be pooled together tightly from eye witness reports and information gleaned from those who might have seen those taken before the incident.”

The OEA lady says ‘incident’ as if things like fourteen teenagers randomly going missing isn’t something out of the ordinary and maybe to her it isn’t. However, it’s almost as if they don’t matter at all anymore. Pete’s almost positive the OEA considers _take time_ to mean _until everyone forgets anyone was even missing in the first place_. And fuck if he’s going to let that shit happen. Patrick doesn’t deserve to be forgotten like some stray cat that wanders out of town never to be seen again. He picks at his torn knuckle until a drop of blood starts to swell. It’s calming, a little bit at least.

“It is in everyone’s best interests to stay calm and understand that the OEA has everything under control. We believe this was a single event and that no other occurrences will manifest. The school is safe and no other safety breaches should occur. Do not attempt to hunt out these creatures. They are dangerous and quite possibly already back in Otherworld. Getting involved will only hinder our investigation.”

“Bullshit!” He doesn’t remember standing, just knows his feet are sweaty in his shoes and blood is rolling down his fingers. He’s not alone, across the gymnasium Mikey Way is standing with his hands in fists. The brunette agent looks at him coolly, Mikey flushes slightly and crosses his arms tightly over his chest, but he doesn’t sit. There’s a second agent standing beside her now, he’s staring at him. Pete glares back, contempt as best as he can display it. If there’s one thing boot camp taught him it’s that adults can only intimidate you if you let them. And Pete was officially done with letting adults scare him a year ago. 

When the federally taught intimidation doesn’t work, Principal Saunders steps back up to the plate. “Mr Wentz, Mr Way, sit down!” 

Pete highly doubts that he knew their names not even five minutes ago. The guidance counsellor is sitting in the row of chairs, she’ll get her turn spouting bullshit about the ‘healing process’ or ‘remaining calm in stressful situations’. Pete has to see her once a week, not that he says anything of importance. Mikey is nerdy and unnoticed by the majority, which probably makes him Columbiney enough that he’s forced to go in on occasion too. Saunders definitely got their names from her.

“Pete. Sit down or they’ll kick you out.” William is tugging on his jeans trying to make him sit. He’s doing it hard enough that Pete’s lucky that he’s wearing a belt. 

“Right. Because their information has been so helpful so far! Fuck this. Fuck you guys. I’m getting Patrick and you can all go to hell.” He rips his jeans out of William’s clutch and storms out. He hears footsteps behind him but he doesn’t care enough to look over his shoulder. He can’t rely on anyone, except Patrick, and now Patrick is going to have to rely on him. It’s fucked, but then everything about life is.

*

Bird song worms its way between interwoven tree limbs before taking flight, loud squawks filling the air. The chirps and whistles sounding out are unusual in tone and timbre but Gerard’s not confused by them. His dreams are always populated with creatures and scenery no one’s ever seen before. Sometimes he’s even lucid enough to hold on to the images so when he wakes up he can grab for his sketch pad and trap the creatures and scenery in between the pages for safe keeping.

There’s this detached feeling that keeps bubbling up, however, and it’s making him hazy. Gerard hates when he can’t pay attention to what dream him is creating. It’s almost as if an imaginary thread is tugging him forward and onward at a pace that doesn’t allow for sightseeing. 

Suddenly, something sharp stalls his progression and he stumbles. The pain that rushes through his fingers when his hands fan out to break his fall does something weird to him. Whatever haze was holding him down is still present but it’s in the background now and _shit_. Gerard’s pretty sure he’s not dreaming. Damn, damn, damn. He’s in Otherworld. There can’t be another explanation for the different species of birds fluttering about and the oddly tinted shade of the grass.

This is so, so not good. What’s even worse, he’s not alone. He recognises the lavender hoodie beside him, the royal purple one in front of him. He can’t turn his head to make sure it’s Brendon -wants to move his head and can’t, which is not a good sign- but there are very few people who own lavender hoodies. 

The last things he remember are all flashes, like those were the snippets of dreams. Running through Imagine for the fifth time -twelfth for the week and it’s only Tuesday- and Hayley being the only one to not roll her eyes. Of course she was happy, she got the second solo. The shimmering of a hole ripping in the top of the classroom, like oil in the parking lot after a rain - iridescent, but in an unnatural way. Mr Parker shouting at them to run. The eerie, wordless hum.

The same hum is playing now. Gerard doesn’t follow a lot about Otherworld creatures, not like Mikey does. He prefers his monsters fake; vampires and werewolves. But he’s not an idiot, and he does have to share a room. It’s clearly a Siren calling them to their deaths. He’s not entirely sure why they’re creepy bird hybrids, not mermaids, but whatever. The point is they’re still singing their luring song, but it’s not working anymore. Which means it is possible to free his mind, even if his body doesn’t work. 

“Wake the fuck up!” He can’t shove Maja in front of him and make her fall. But if he screams loud enough, maybe. Otherwise they’re going to walk right off a cliff, their broken bodies torn to shreds for food. The siren’s head turns around completely to stare at him, like a owl. Gerard screams even louder. “Wake up, fuckers!”

Their hum gets louder in response. Out of sheer insolence Gerard opens his mouth and sings out “wake up, I’m pounding on the door, I’m not the man I was before, where the hell are you, when I need you? Wake up, I’m pounding on the door, I won’t hurt you any more, where-” The rest of the lyrics aren’t relevant, but it’s the only song he knows with waking up in it, and if they’re going to sing, well, he’s going to fucking sing too. To hell with them, he won’t let their song lull him back into mindless marching.

Somehow it works. Three Days Grace and their associated rage keeps him awake. More than that, it wakes everyone else up. Bert first, he’s too far to the side for Gerard to be able to see him, but he can hear his _what the fucking fuck is going on?_. Shortly after it’s Gabe and _the Cobra did not warn me of this_ , and Melanie’s _I didn’t know Otherworld had angels_. Mr Parker is oddly the last one out of his trance. Gerard would be insulted, and worried it said something about his singing abilities, if he wasn’t busy being relieved.

Ultimately, it probably doesn’t matter much. The Sirens are still in control, so Chamber choir is in a position of weakness. Unless he can think of a song that kills Sirens. Bloodhound Gang’s I Hope You Die is too convoluted, and The Doors would end up with him dying on fire, not the damn creatures. But at the very least they won’t die as happy mindless drones. Gerard will not be Jedi mindfucked. It goes against his belief system.

*

Sometimes, when there’s nothing else left to do, you just have to get high. Gabe’s been kidnapped, Patrick’s been kidnapped. Pete is currently having an aneurysm about Patrick being kidnapped, and while Ryland can’t blame him, he also can’t do much to help if Pete is not in the designated soothing area. He actually has no idea where Pete is, he’s not answering any texts.

The designated soothing area is where it always is; Nate’s basement. Having it be the communal area gives Nate an excuse to have Gabe over all the time. The Navarros aren’t suspicious yet. Ryland doesn’t know how bad it’ll be if they figure it out, he can’t really see them flipping out. But then from the outside the Wentzs look nice too.

Sitting on the floor, long legs stretched in front of him, William is packing another bowl. It’s probably unneeded; the pipe’s been passed around constantly but they’ve all had the equivalent of a full bowl of hoots. But Ryland doesn’t try to stop him, and neither does anyone else. William and Travis have what Victoria says is called survivor’s guilt, bothered by the fact that they skipped choir on the one day everyone in choir was taken. Ryland doesn’t see why they should feel guilty, it was a total fluke. Any other day it might have been Gabe skipping a class with the both of them, or by himself. But if they need to smother their feelings with smoke, well so be it. 

Alex looks up from the Twizzler he’s systematically shredding. “Do you think anyone thought to call Maja’s friends?”

“What, in Iceland?”

“She’s from Sweden, dumbass.”

“Probably not, man. I mean they didn’t even call Patrick’s parents, Pete told me he had to tell them why they needed to blow off work to come to the gym.”

“That’s fucked up. I’m gonna Facebook them.” Alex stands and makes his way up the stairs, as the office is on the main floor. Ryland thinks he’s just as likely to end up messaging Maja’s dentist’s kid, the way Facebook works, but whatever. If it makes him feel like he’s doing something, why not?

It’s about twenty minutes and three bowls later -seriously, William is going to have to stay the night, the Becketts would not be happy about the Pigpen-esque cloud of smoke surrounding him- when Ryland’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He’s not the only one, it sounds like everyone in the room’s phone is going off, with a variety of ringtones.

**wr svin thm. if u wnt 2 sve urs brng cmpin gear+food. 47 Banntyne**

Ryland makes a bet with himself about if the text is from Mikey for Gerard, or Pete for Patrick before checking the origin. He’s wrong, but he also has no doubts Pete will be there in ten minutes flat. The question is if he wants to go.

Really, the answer is pretty simple. Yes. Gabe would do it for him. Besides that, who doesn’t want an adventure through the Otherworld? That’s a hundred times cooler than driving down to Florida for spring break. “Who else is going?”

Travis snorts. “I think it’s more is anyone in this room not?”

“My parents have a fuck-ton of camping gear, I bet we have at least five sleeping bags. But we’ll need to stop at a Super-One for food.”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “Nate, we also need changes of clothes. And I should probably take a box of tampons, God only knows how long this is gonna take. Everyone give Nate twenty bucks, he’ll go shopping while we go grab personal shit.”

Ryland forks over his handful of five dollar bills, and they all leave the Navarros in a stream. It only takes him ten minutes to bike home, and less time than that to pack a bag. He doesn’t need much; a second pair of jeans, a second shirt, a few pairs of socks so he doesn’t get blisters, bandaids for when he inevitably does, a bottle of vitamins from the bathroom in case the food runs out and Otherworld food doesn’t have the right nutrients. He sends an email to both his parents next. They won’t check their accounts until the morning so they won’t impede his leaving, but at least they’ll know what’s going on. And then he pulls on a hoodie and bikes to Banntyne.

It’s a corner lot, which that’s a good thing because there are a lot of shitty obviously teenage driven cars parked around it, along with some bikes and a few skateboards. Ryland wasn’t expecting to see so many, didn’t think most people were as insane as he and Victoria and Travis are. It really restores a guy’s faith in humanity.

By and large it’s a group he knows. There are a few he doesn’t, probably Jimmy or Dustin’s friends. Or one of the girls. He only knows the name of half the girls in Chamber. He should know more. He goes to the concerts and every concert comes with a piece of coloured printer paper with song titles and original artists and what choir is from what school and who’s in it. But Ryland generally doesn’t read the folded paper, just texts or plays an app game until Sherman comes on stage. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t recognise them now, beyond making him feel kinda dumb. If they’re going on a rescue mission together he’ll learn names soon enough. 

It does matter that he doesn’t recognise the fucking five year old in the middle of the room. Who is being held in place by Ray Toro. Who appears to have a fucking Dragon on his shoulder. A beautiful, awesome Dragon, wearing a onesie. Ryland shakes his head to refocus himself. He can meet Ray’s pet later, pretty much nothing would stop him from trying to shake paws -or whatever the appendage is- with Ray’s pet. But for now, “why have you kidnapped a five year old?”

The cluster of what has to be at least fifteen people groans. It’s the groan of a class immediately after the class moron has asked for a definition of the same word that’s been defined about five times already. But fuck them, because nowhere in the text did it say _we’re going to kidnap a toddler_.

“She’s eight.” Mikey says shortly. “That have any significance to it?”

You’d have to be completely brain dead to not know what that means. “You’re telling me she’s like a Gollem or something?”

“Changeling. Not that it matters, except she’s from that side, so she can open a door.”

“Aren’t you though? Can’t you?” Ryland’s still pretty stuck on the Dragon actually talking, but part of his brain acknowledges Alex has a point. An Alex that is not his Alex, it looks like they’re going to have to go on the first name last initial system during their trip.

“Was hatched here. That kind of fucks shit up for the old world laws versus the race memory thing.”

He is a Dragon that says _fuck shit up_. Gabe is going to be so goddamn jealous. Ryland finds himself drifting towards Ray and Mikey and the changeling. He doesn’t talk to them though, just leans in to the creature. “So, you’re kind of awesome.”

“If you call me Puff I will bite your thumb off.”

“Anti-nickname position noted.” He’s pretty fond of his thumbs, it seems like it wouldn’t be worth it.

*

Walking seems to take forever. Brendon’s awake now though, no longer completely caught up in whatever thrall the creatures who took them placed over the whole choir. Well okay, he’s still as helpless as everyone else, stuck forever marching onward as the landscape changes from forest to meadow, then field, and back to forest again. At least he’s not deluded any more.

Craning his head is impossible so Brendon hasn’t really gotten a chance to see what type of creature decided it was a good idea to take twenty teenagers. His best guess is there has to be at least four of them, if not more, because occasionally he gets a glimpse of _slightly not right_ in either side of his peripheral vision. The logical assumption has to be that they’re being corralled like cattle by horses ridden by ranchers.

The forest they’re walking through now is filled with sound; bird chirps and insect buzz. There’s also the gentle hum of melody filtering and weaving amongst everything. It’s calming, even though Brendon’s pretty sure he shouldn’t find it so, considering it’s got to be how they’re being controlled, compelled, whatever it is that’s going on. Of course there’s also the mutters and complaints that clash and fight about around them. Apparently some of his choir mates think it’s a good idea to complain about things. 

“I have a fucking pollen allergy, and we’re walking through the forest! I could die any second now, but do they care? Of course not.”

“No one cares, Hayley. We’re all gonna die when we get eaten anyway.” Bert tends to not like Hayley’s whining.

Then a minute later, it’s Gabe’s turn to complain. “I’m so fucking hungry. I swear, if a minotaur came up I’d gut it and eat it.”

Even Mr Parker gets in on it. “We’ve been walking for quite a long time, I suggest you let us stop.”

Brendon’s not going to say anything. He’d rather not be nudged in the direction of any high cliffs or raging rivers. Sure, his feet hurt and he’s hungry. There’s no telling how time works here, no one’s ever really mentioned it when there’s lectures on Otherworld. It’s possible they’ve been walking in a fugue state for days. But he’s not going to waste away though, so he’ll deal. It’s better than making the creature that controls his every movement angry.

Suddenly the melody shifts. It gets high enough that Brendon wishes he could cover his ears to hide from the pitch. The person in front of him abruptly stops and he’s expecting to crash into their back, but his feet plant firmly against the moss covered ground on their own and he doesn’t. 

The trees around them are massive, well most of them are. Peppered amongst the dark colored trunks of what must be extremely ancient trees are tanned, thin willowy saplings. It’s when one of the sapling’s branches sway in an unusual way for a plant that he realizes, _not a tree then_. Of course Dryads would live here as well, and Brendon briefly wonders if the one who stole Spencer’s drum sticks might be around nearby. 

Sunlight falls through the shifts in the canopy ruffling way above their heads and Brendon’s aware of rustling and motion around them. The choir members seem to have all been bunched into a loose circle and he’s on the outside.

“You think anyone here has ever heard of a chair? My feet hurt like a bitch.” It’s almost contemplative complaining, dreamy sounding. Brendon puts it down to the fact that Alex is nearly always altered.

Gabe groans. “Food, I have to have food! Chicken wings. Medium spicy.” When no one responds he scowls. “Alex would have got that reference.”

“What?”

“My Alex, numbnuts.”

One of the creatures stands guard near him and Brendon tries not to stare. Sirens. Sirens kidnapped them. There’s no other Otherworld creature who would look like the cross between a bird and a woman, with sharp facial features and curved fingers that end in long, sharp nails. The use of music as a lure should have been a dead give away, but Brendon didn’t want to assume things until he was sure. What if Otherworld has a clan of pied pipers? Anything’s possible with this place.

“Great.” Sheena snorts. “Kidnapped by naked mutant birdwomen. Just who’s jerk off fantasy did we walk into?” Gabe leers, grabs his junk and thrusts forward. If his aim was to shock her he fails miserably. “Go back to the eighties, when being a Michael Jackson wannabe was only half as pathetic as it is now.”

Brendon wants to thump his head against the bark of one of the nearest trees. The people he’s with are only going to make things worse with their bickering and complaining. The Sirens aren’t stupid. They seem to understand human speech pretty well, if the way the one closest to him tilts her head like a parrot listening to someone speaking every so often at the things his choir mates are saying is any clue. Why can’t anyone else understand that they’re making everything worse? 

The sound of fluttering pulls his attention as straight ahead as he can crane to see from his position in the group. Two Sirens stride to the edge of the choir members at the front with something furry dangling from their fingers. One of the Sirens has grey-white wings and long brassy looking hair tangling around her arms. Her companion only has mottled feathers weaving a intricate pattern across the skin of her shoulders. They drop the furry creatures to the ground with several thunks. Brendon’s not sure if the dead animals are Otherworld’s version of rabbits or not. Thinking about Lord of the Rings right now makes him want to laugh nervously, but he refrains. There’s no telling if the Sirens will take the noise as an offense. It’s best to just stay quiet.

The two Sirens step backwards and a steady hum climbs into the air. It’s their compulsion song again. Brendon suddenly has the urge to move forward towards the fur sitting atop the moss that’s covering the ground when the melody crashes against him in the meaning of ::Eat:: 

Before he can do anything, complaints rise up around him, again. It starts with Jimmy belting out “come on now, lemme feel the gross out, obvious and aloof, I know you never had a faith in all that which you knew.” He doesn’t know the song, but the words help to sheer away the compulsion, making Brendon see eating raw unrecognisable animal is indeed pretty gross.

“Seriously, anyone know any cooking song? Because this is just cruel. There’s food, and we can’t have it. Just cruel.”

“Well, there’s Cook It Down by Pusha T, but it’s actually about cocaine.” Dustin offers.

Gerard shrugs. “Try it anyway. My waking up song was actually about a drunk jerk, but it worked.”

“K. Cook it down, cook it down. You know that I cook it down, cook it down. Every time I come around.”

Brendon’s not sure rap will work for the Sirens, but he can hope.

*

::you ate. sing now::

It’s an uncomfortable silence. Twenty minutes ago they were all singing to demand food, to get it prepared properly. Now that they’ve been asked it’s different. Nobody wants to volunteer, not when they don’t know why the Sirens want them to. It’s not like an audition for a summer play, or to get into Chamber for a second or third year. This will probably have some sort of freaky Otherworld consequence, and Greta’s not about to be the first.

Bert breaks first. “Fuck it. What do you want, Slayer or Queen?”

The Siren shakes her head, it’s eerie how much she looks like an owl doing it. ::only females::

Well screw that. Hayley and her damn arrogance can step up, or Sheena’s self-confidence. Greta’s perfectly fine with letting the divas go first.

Of course though, it’s not either of them. Bebe steps forward, and from Greta’s vantage she can see Patrick rolling his eyes, brief amusement punching through his terror. He’s always saying she’s a girl Pete, never thinking before doing. Greta doesn’t really know Pete, but from what she’s gathered it’s not always a good thing.

Bebe doesn’t say anything, just opens her mouth and starts her song. It takes Greta a second to place it. It’s Pink, but older stuff, from the chorus repetition Greta knows the song has to be called Diary, or Dear Dear Diary. Bebe gets through it without anything happening, and when she’s done, the Siren just nods its head.

::you next:: The siren is singing at Gerard, and in almost slow motion everyone turns to look at him. Greta can see it. He’s got a pretty face, long hair, and a hoodie that covers up any figure or lack there of.

Gabe, of course, is a total dick about it. He bursts into laughter, finally wheezing “they think you’re a girl!” 

Gerard blushes, which hardly proves his masculinity. “I’m a guy!” The Siren sends disbelief. “I am!”

Out of all of them, it’s Jimmy that speaks up. “I think you need to prove that shit, probably.” The innocent smile doesn’t go well with the ridiculous not-spiked-hair-not-quite-mohawk style he’s got, and the jerking off motion ruins it completely.

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” If Greta thought he was blushing before it’s nothing compared to now. But he unzips his jeans. She looks away before he pulls them down. Seeing naked Gerard Way is nowhere on her Life Goals list.

She’s pretty much the only one to look away. Maja and Melanie burst into a short round of applause, and Gabe starts cracking up. “Aww man I wish I had my phone. I can’t believe I left it in my locker. This shit is awesome. Ha, oh my God. Fuckin’ great.”

His short sentences come to an abrupt halt when Bert shoves him, hard, and he goes tumbling into a tree, almost faceplanting into the bark. Maja and Melanie applaud for that too.

As always, Sheena gets pissy that someone else was the focus of attention, even when it’s a type of attention you’d think no one would want. She says “I’ll go next,” with an air of expectation, and Greta wonders if she’s waiting for applause. 

She starts singing Kate Nash’s Foundations. Greta think it’s a bad choice, but she can’t say that without getting her head torn off by Sheena. But it’s a naturally fast and powerful song, and Sheena’s nerves are making her rush through it. She’s not singing it, she’s speedtalking, and Mr Parker has the same blank look he always has when he doesn’t want to make the singer cry but hates what they’re doing. Hayley is sneering, Patrick is wincing, everyone except Sheena knows she’s fucking it up. Everyone is reacting. Except the Siren, who waits in stillness until the end of the song.

As soon as Sheena finishes, the Siren darts forward. Greta’s never actually seen anything organic move that quickly. Not even the big cats in the African enclosure at the zoo are this swift. Perhaps it’s the Otherworld qualities of the Siren, or maybe it’s the almost birdlike posture that gives her the ability to move so fluidly. In less than a minute, it doesn’t even matter why because the Siren pivots backwards and Sheena’s left pressing a manicured hand to her throat.

Bright red blood trickles around her pale fingers and begins to drop down to the ground. The Siren stays rigid, Sheena’s blood dripping from her apparently razor sharp claw-like fingernails. Everyone’s silent and the bird song that was loud not even a minute ago has vanished like moisture evaporating on a hundred degree day. 

Sheena tries to speak and blood bubbles out of her mouth instead of words, an eerie stain of pinkish red that dribbles down her chin. Her knees buckle. Her body doesn’t even twitch when she falls. Greta’s caught staring at the blood starting to soak into the ground. Shock coils around her the same moment panic starts to break out. 

It’s mostly vocal. There are fourteen Chamber kids, and only three move at all. Melanie faints, and Gerard and Patrick drop to their knees. Gerard to vomit, barely digested meat all over the roots of the tree. Patrick drops beside Sheena and checks her pulse, and the flow of blood. It’s not surprising that he’s trying to save her, as the rumor mill has it a year ago Pete tried to kill himself and Patrick saved him then. But Greta knows with a sickening certainty that Sheena is a goner. There’s no way you can lose that much blood and still live, not without transfusions in the back of an ambulance.

There are a few that are staring in silence like she is. Most though are shouting, stupid useless things like _what’s wrong with you_ and _oh my God, she’s dead_. Hayley’s just screaming wordlessly, shrill and terrified. Greta wants to make a quip about her being the next Neve Campbell, but it seems in bad taste, and her voice is frozen anyway. Frozen, like everyone else. It’s not a Siren song, not like the walking spell, Greta’s sure of it. If it was, Gerard would have puked down his chest, not on his hands and knees. The immobility is from fear. They’re teens of the twenty first century, free speech as assumed as air, screaming obscenities like Bert is doing is a given right. Greta knows without asking that no one thinks there’s a risk in language. To the majority of minds only making a move is dangerous. It’s just her and Brendon that see it.

It’s Mr Parker who takes action. While everyone else is just screaming things at the Siren, he somehow finds a way to move forward. He’s tense and unhappy, hell they all are. The Siren doesn’t move when he approaches her, however the moment one of his hands goes to dig into her arm to drag her down, or away, Greta’s not exactly sure what Mr. Parker was planning on doing, another Siren moves forward from where she was hiding. Greta’s expecting her to go for his throat like the other Siren did with Sheena. She doesn’t. Instead, her weight and speed causes the two of them to crash to the ground. Tufts of moss puff up when they fall. The motion is different from when Sheena collapsed and the contrast has Greta mentally stumbling to keep up. 

Mr. Parker tries to push the Siren off of him but she’s strong, much stronger than he is. His hands keep nudging her shoulders uselessly. Suddenly it’s as if the Siren tires of trying to prove some nameless point. One of her hands travels upwards until her claw-like fingers can twist into Mr. Parker’s short hair. Blood starts to flow down the side of her hand when her nails start to cut into his scalp and Mr. Parker tries not to scream from the pain. 

In the next instant, the Siren rocks backward, away from the dark surface of the tree they’ve somehow gotten near during the scuffle, and with the same speed the other Siren used on Sheena, she drags Mr. Parker with her. By the time she’s finished, grey matter is sticking to the bark of the tree’s trunk and Mr. Parker is nothing more than a rag doll being tossed head first at the tree, over and over again. 

::sing:: the Siren hums at her, direction twinged with impatience. Greta swallows, her suddenly dry throat spasming. This will either be the best song of her life, or the last song of her life. 

*

Frank’s backpack is crammed full of clothing and food he’s been able to sneak from the kitchen pantry when no one was looking. It’s hard to lift when he grabs the strap, but there’s no telling if anyone else will think about bringing food instead of, say, matches and hopefully water, so he doesn’t pull anything out. Plus he’s not taking out the six pairs of socks he has shoved at the bottom with a spare pair of shoes, just in case.

His parents have to know he’s planning something. They were at the meeting and Frank’s predictable enough to them by now that they have to know he can’t just sit idly in his room while Gee’s missing. However, when he stealth sneaks pass the living room couch, no one’s lounging against the cushions waiting for him. 

Sitting his backpack down near the front door, Frank slowly twists the handle. If everyone’s asleep or watching tv elsewhere he doesn’t want to alert them that he’s leaving. When he opens the door, his dad’s on the top step of the porch smoking. That explains why no one was on the couch aimlessly flicking through television stations out of boredom.

Back door it is then. Picking up his heavy as fuck backpack, Frank heads quickly and quietly through the house. Light spills in through the cracks in the curtain covering the glass square set into the door. The back porch light is on and when Frank moves the yellow curtain out of the way he notices his grandpa in one of the patio chairs reading some magazine. Mother fucking hell. He should have realised this wouldn’t be easy. 

Okay, fine. He can climb out his bedroom window. All teenagers do that at least once in their lifetime and don’t end up breaking their necks. If they can do it, so can Frank. 

The only problem to his plan c is the fact that Mom is standing outside, almost right under his window, on her cell phone. To anyone on a late jog, she’s just outside talking to a friend or relative so she can have privacy. Frank knows it for what it is, his family is playing guard dogs against him. 

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. He can’t stay here and not help Mikey find Gee. He just needs to think of a new plan. And what it comes down to is should he be a good friend or a good son?

He goes downstairs again, and opens the front door. His dad’s not even through the smoke. He doesn’t look up until Frank is standing on the concrete, closing the door behind him. “Excuse me, I have to go.” Might as well try manners first, right?

“Frank, you know I can’t let you go.”

Frank crosses his arms. “And you know that I can’t let you... not let me go.” Fuck it, who says threats have to be eloquent.

“Frank-”

“Seriously Dad, I have to go. Don’t make me do this, I really don’t want to do this.” Even just the idea hurts. 

“You can’t save Gerard.”

Maybe he can’t. But there’s one thing he knows. “Well, they won’t.”

And he’s slipping off his backpack and smashing it into his own father’s head, and there are cans of fruit that clonk heavily, and his dad goes tumbling off the side of the steps. Frank puts the backpack back on and just runs, sprints down the street, fuck fuck fuck, praying his dad won’t need to go to the hospital. No one chases him, except his own conscious. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, Mikey’s for on speed dial. He shouts ‘coming’ into the phone, hangs up, and keeps running. Them leaving without him is just about the worst thing he can think of. Aside from Gerard being already dead, or his dad having brain damage, and he won’t think about either. He can’t afford to.


	2. Chapter 2

Tiny pebbles of dirt and rock fall to his feet and scatter. The sound bounces off of the stone walls of the cave in an echo that mingles together with the noises of heavy breathing and grunts of manual labor that seem to be the main constant of the mines. Gerard doesn’t know how the young men around him can do this day in and day out. Sometimes, one of them will mutter what could be considered a curse before biting back the retort and resuming their search for precious stones and smooth rock. Gerard can’t tell though, because the teens around him only seem to speak Russian, German, or Ukrainian.

He has no way of knowing how long he’s been chained up down here. It feels like it’s been months since he’s seen the sun or any of the other choir members. Without any way to keep track of time, Gerard can’t tell what day it is and it’s messing with his head a little. The longer this nightmare goes on the less likely it is Mikey or Frank will be showing up to rescue him. Right about now he’s willing accept a year of sibling blackmail material from his brother about the fact that he was kidnapped by Sirens just so he can go home. Constant mocking would be light years better than this.

The first thing the Dwarves did when they marched them to the mines was break them up by body type, build, height, and temperament before shoving them off and away from each other. Gerard doesn’t want to think about being forced to creep by a sleeping Dragon that felt hotter than a furnace even from a distance, with massive, shiny teeth that seemed to just scream _sharp enough to eat you with_ every time the creature shifted during its slumber. The Dwarves seemed to get a sick sense of pleasure out of watching him spook while they continued their brisk pace, using sticks and whips to prod the line of workers forward.

He also doesn’t want to dwell on the fact that the Dwarves are menacing little fuckers. Tolkien didn’t write them mean enough and Gerard feels cheated because he was under the assumption that Dwarves were not massive dicks. When it gets to meal time, two will grasp a hold of the chain that wraps around everyone’s left ankle and yank until the line collapses in a heap. It’s painful and demeaning, especially when a water trough is shoved in front of the line first and they all crash against the unyielding sides when they fall. The more water that sloshes out is less you get. Gerard learned that lesson quickly. Bread only shows up at the end of their shift and the line is poked and prodded to their cells.

There’s a curse in Russian next to him and Gerard pauses. None of the Dwarves are near him at the moment so he leans near the Russian teen and whispers something about fighting back when their second ’bath’ happens soon. The guy pretends not to hear him and continues to pry rocks from the side of the cave. He possibly didn’t understand, but that’s okay. Gerard’ll try again later.

Suddenly, a sharp sting bites into his right calf thrice. It’s rapid fire, and Gerard’s knees buckle from the unexpected pain. The tip of a crooked stick pokes into his side. Before he can try to stumble to his feet, stubby fingers thread through his greasy hair and tug.

“You will not speak and if you try to run the Dragons love fresh meat to feast upon.”

The Dwarf peering at him is angry and the smile that curls to touch the edges of his beard is malicious. He pulls away and pokes Gerard with the end of his stick until Gerard gets the hint and staggers to his feet.

“No bread tonight. Seems you all need to learn your places again.” 

Gerard sets back to work looking for rubies and other gems. He almost wishes the choir was still in the forest with the Sirens. The bird women were violent, but not this outwardly evil. Thinking about the Sirens makes him worry about the girls. When the Dwarves had shown up with two bags of something heavy and dropped the canvas at the feet of the nearest Siren, the choir was split in half. The guys were herded out of the forest and to the mountains on the other side of the massive trees that serve as the Sirens’ home while the girls stayed. There’s no telling what shit’s going down there.

At least thinking about the girls and their problems means he doesn’t have to think about what’s going to happen when the rest hours show up and he’s locked in a cell with people who won’t be happy with him. It’s not his fault they’re not eating, it’s the Dwarf’s fault, but they won’t see it like that. Hopefully, some of the other choir members will be shoved in the cell with him like they were several ‘nights’ ago. It’s the best he can hope for at the moment.

*

It’s hard for Frank to get to sleep their first night in Otherworld. 

It’s not his first time sleeping in a sleeping bag. You’d have to be incredibly sheltered with completely awful parents to have never had a sleepover. It’s not his first time sleeping in a sleeping bag outside. Last year he and the guys went camping for three days. It was supposed to be a week but Mikey nearly drowned and they cut it early. Which turned out to be a good thing, because when Ray got home Lars was so pissed at not being included that he didn’t talk to Ray for nine days. Had he been gone the full week Lars probably would have held out for a month. It’s not even his first time sleeping with thirty other people; there was that time in Scouts where they had a sleepover at the Children’s Museum.

What it is, is his first time sleeping outside with thirty other people, knowing that creatures that don’t even know exist can attack at any time, and that not being attacked is the only way to rescue their best friends. 

Frank wakes to a weight on his chest. Before he can start screaming and batting at it, hoping it’s skin isn’t acidic, the weight speaks. “Fucking stop it.”

It takes Frank a moment to figure out what’s going on. The voice is definitely Bob’s. The way he’s stretched over him means that he’s probably talking to Mikey, who’s on his other side. Frank calls back the memories of sleepovers with Mikey, and oh. _Oh_. Of fucking course. Mikey’s pretty loud when he’s getting off. It takes more than groaning to wake Frank up, but Bob’s probably a lighter sleeper.

Frank can’t really speak with Bob compressing the air out of him, but he can feel Bob jostling as he punches Mikey. Violence done, he sits up in his sleeping bag and rubs a hand over his face. It’s only been a day and he’s already getting noticeable whiskers. If they’re here for any length of time Bob’s going to grow a beard. Not that Frank wants it to take forever to find Gee and the rest, but Bob with a beard will be pretty nice. He’s also looking forward to tomorrow morning when Mikey realises he can’t have coffee.

For now though, Frank gets to witness Mikey being obnoxious instead of Mikey being bitchy. “That was my jerking arm Bob. Now it’s going to take forever to finish!”

Bob’s growling low in his throat. It’s kind of hilarious. Frank’s well aware it’s because Bob thinks Mikey’s an asshole for continuing, but Frank would rather make the situation even more entertaining than be truthful. “Ohhh, sexual tension! Mikey how about you jerk Bob off, and Bob you jerk Mikey off? Then everyone’s happy!”

He doesn’t realise how loud he’s talking until somewhere in the sea of sleeping bags Lyn-Z Ballato sits up. “Oh, is it orgy time?” Before Frank can either deny, or confirm and get hit by Bob for it, she turns to her friend and slaps his face with a medium amount of energy. “Steve, wake up. We’re taking the edge off of Jimmy probably being dead with a circle jerk.”

Bob grumbles something like _I hate you all_ , and Frank just laughs. He settles back down in the flannel of his sleeping bag. He can practically hear Bob’s irritation on his right, and Mikey’s still grunting on his left, but they walked for like twelve hours today. Frank’s too tired to stay up.

Unfortunately for Frank, sleeping the night through isn’t an option. He wakes up some indeterminable time later. It’s still night, but who knows how long night might last in a place like this? He’s not sure what woke him up until it happens again. Something bashes against his back, something at least soccer ball sized. His _back_ , which is still against the _ground_.

He slaps Mikey’s chest, hard enough to make him wake up with a cough. “Sand snake! Beetlejuice sand snake! Mikey! Mikey!”

“There are trees. A few rocks. No sand.” Mikey rolls onto his side and is instantly back asleep.

Frank breathes in deeply. Maybe he’s just being paranoid. Maybe there’s nothing there. Maybe it’s- Nope, the same thing bashes into his back again. Mikey a lost cause, Frank scampers out of his sleeping bag onto Bob’s stomach. It’s easy to perch, a knee on each thigh, so he’s not touching the ground at all. “Sand snake from Beetlejuice! Sand snake! Bawwwwb!”

“Why the fuck are you on me?”

Well, Jesus Christ, how much clearer can he make it? “In the ground! Sand snake! From Beetlejuice!”

“The fuck?” he mutters, eyes still closed.

“Open your goddamn eyes!” Frank waits a second and then puts his index fingers on Bob’s eyelids and pries them up. “Fucking look!”

Bob bucks up, like he’s trying to get Frank off, but in his twisting looks to the side, where Frank’s sleeping bag is arching away from the ground. “Holy crap.” 

“See!”

When Bob speaks again he’s loud enough to wake up the entire mass of teens sprawled and sleeping. “SAND SNAKE FROM BEETLEJUICE! RUN!”

“Oh shit, really?” Mikey’s on his feet and running in seconds, the first elephant that makes the whole herd stampede. Frank would be insulted that Mikey believes Bob and not him, if he wasn’t completely busy running for his life.

After sprinting for about ten minutes the majority of the group comes to a halt. Dan and Steve are panting like they’re about to pass out, and their friends have stopped with them, and everyone knows you don’t leave a man behind. Except Melanie’s two friends, and Dustin’s cluster of dudebros. Frank doesn’t really know the names of the girls, just knows they’re girlfriends, because hot lesbian sex is far more important information than names in the gossip mill of males at Sherman. Whether or not it would piss Gerard off, it’s true. When the girlfriends finally see that the group has stopped they turn and jog back. And of course Dustin’s friends can’t be more cowardly than girls, so they run back too.

“How close was it?” Victoria finally asks.

“What?”

“To the Beetlejuice sand snake? Like, did it have the head inside a head? Was it striped?”

Bob shrugs. “Dunno. Didn’t actually see it. But it was coming out of the ground under Frank’s sleeping bag.”

To Frank’s astonishment, Victoria snorts. “Fucking idiots. It was a Gnome. They live in burrows, are attracted to scents, and I’m sure we’re all smelly as hell after all today’s walking. And are complete vegetarians. They eat _soil_. I’m going back to sleep now.”

And with that, she starts to walk in the direction they just ran from. Frank decides to follow. Not because he’s wrong. Just because when the sand snake eats her, he wants to say I told you so, then try to beat it to death before it eats anyone he cares about. Or maybe Devon can do it. He’s on half a dozen teams and he brought a baseball bat with him. 

*

Greta wakes up slowly. Her neck hurts and her left leg’s asleep from how she slept squished up against the wood of the tree that acts as a prison wall, keeping her, Maja, Hayley, and Bebe from exploring or leaving. Even if they found a way out of their tree root prison they couldn’t go far. The Sirens still have them tightly under control.

Sunlight filters through the roots and causes strips of yellow light to brighten their little hollow. Hayley shifts and blinks awake. A leafy hand curls delicately around one of the dirt covered roots and a Dryad pops it’s head in to check on them. Bits of neon green moss streak the Dryad’s strawberry blonde hair while twigs twist in some of the strands. Greta’s also sure there must a bramble or seven burrowed in knots in the Dryad’s hair from the way tiny, spiky, brown bumps peek out of the rat’s nest of tangles.

The Dryad smiles a wide row of white, white teeth at them before setting a large, folded leaf down on the ground in front of them. Seconds later, the Dryad’s gone and their breakfast of berries and nuts is sitting in front of them wriggling under the leaf. Hayley makes an aborted squeal and Bebe leans close enough to unfold the leaf. Several, small, green worms have worked their way out of a few of the bigger nut shells and they fall on the ground when they’re free of the confines of the leaf.

A worm wriggles close to Hayley and she makes a tiny gurgling moan of a sound before trying to scramble backwards. Greta sighs and flicks the worm outside. The last thing she wants is to piss some insect loving creature off. The guys irritated the Sirens enough that they got sold to the Dwarves and Greta really doesn’t want to be forced into slave labor for a bag of smooth pebbles. Not that she’s sure she wants to stay here.

After the guys were poke and prodded away, a few of them having to be dragged away by the Dwarves because they were protesting far too loudly for the liking of the short bearded men, Melanie tried to sing something to bring them back. One of the Sirens crept up to her and titled her head to the side like a blue jay trying to listen to some far off chirp before leaning forward and silencing her. 

Greta wonders if they’re all going to die eventually. Melanie had passed whatever initial tests the Sirens had hung over their heads. Yet, they still slit her throat just as easily as they had Sheena’s. 

There’s rustling outside their make-shift prison cell and the roots slowly drop away. A gentle hum flits around them. Hayley rises to her feet first, then Maja, and finally Greta lets herself go with the motion, standing on stiff legs that don’t want to hold her weight. Sunlight blinds her when she climbs up and over the roots at the base of the tree.

Four Sirens stand in front of them. Behind them are others. The song vibrating off of them is warm, almost akin to a heated bath scented with jasmine after a long day. A blond with stubby brown, almost-wings darts forward and places a clawed finger under Bebe’s jaw and lifts her chin until Bebe’s looking right at her. The song that ghosts across Bebe’s lips is bright and Greta’s not expecting the gasp that flutters about, above their heads when Bebe has to finally take a breath.

Greta doesn’t get a chance to see what happens next, because another Siren steps up to her and rests a hand over her cheek. The touch is soft, a sharp contrast to the nails that barely scrape the back of her neck. She notices the other two Sirens gain the attention of Maja and Hayley. There’s nothing she can do, her Siren won’t let her.

When the song presses against her lips she doesn’t fight it. There’s really no reason to. At least if it kills her, she won’t have to worry about this world anymore. If it doesn’t, chances are nothing’s going to matter afterwards anyways. 

* 

Spencer does not remember Tinkerbell being an evil bitch-fairy. To hell with Brendon being some sort of G rated movie fanboy, Spencer is distinctly not impressed with Disney. When they finally find him, Spencer’s going to have ammunition for a week. A month even. That is, if he can actually talk. Ryan’s tried to shove his cock down Spencer’s throat so many times maybe he won’t have any voice left.

It’s not the awkwardly consentless sex that’s an issue. Not really. As much as Spencer would rather not be shoved to the ground so Ryan can rub his dick across his face, he’s pretty sure Ryan is going to feel weird for doing it when he sobers up. So Spencer will pretend he’s cool with it, and later Ryan will pretend he doesn’t feel fucked up for doing it. It’s the only way to save their sanities. Ryan’s not too stable as it is, Spencer doesn’t need his best friend to be permanently head-fucked. The major issue is really more a matter of making sure Ryan focuses on him, not anyone else in the group.

Three hours ago it was yet another day of walking, Ray Toro -and his pet Dragon, what the fuck- in lead position. Not that Ray really knew where to take them all. The Dragon was of the opinion that the Sirens wouldn’t keep most of the choir members, they’d trade with whatever creatures had something of value. So they’re just walking aimlessly, trying to find someone that knows where a bunch of humans are. The Gnomes didn’t know anything but wished them luck and offered to trade their best soil for the chance to smell them for the rest of the night. The dudebros and Quinn had found that hilarious. The Griffins said they didn’t know, and all the myths say Griffins repel lying. And the one Satyr they’d come across had tried to attack Kittie until she kicked it in the face with a steel toed combat boot.

Then t minus two hours and fifty nine minutes, Ryan, Gina, and Zoe had all burst into cursing in rapid succession. Squinting his eyes against the bright sun -Spencer blames leaving the house in the middle of the evening for not remembering sunglasses- he’d had a brief second to see what were distinctly fairy wings. So much for Tinkerbell, apparently real fairies _bit_.

But it had gotten worse. For a few minutes the trio had cursed and scratched at their rapidly reddening skin. Literal reddening, like if Willy Wonka had been working tomatoes not blueberries. And then in a matter of seconds Gina and Zoe were on the soil, Gina’s hand down Zoe’s jeans, Zoe’s hand pinching Gina’s nipple. Spencer had been captivated for a moment before one of the dudebros -it’s easier to think of them as a collective, they all have names starting in D, and wear exactly the same clothes. At least Alex Marshall and Alex Johnson aren’t white straight billed cap wearing clones- had shouted. Spencer looked over, and Ryan had the dude’s baggy jeans down at his ankles with one good pull, and was rutting against his boxer-briefed hip. A second dudebro tried to pull him off, only for Ryan to transfer his affections on to him.

“Holy shit, they got sex pollened!” Mikey had exploded, eyes darting back and forth between the two couples.

Spencer’d been confused, and not sure he wanted to jump in the fray to remove Ryan. Frank had spoken for him. “The fuck, Mikeyway.”

“You read too much Marvel. DC’s got Poison Ivy, she coined sex pollen. Term’s been corrupted, but people that are forced by aliens or plants or venom to get off. I never thought it could really happen.” Mikey had sounded impressed, awestruck even. Spencer had just sighed, knowing he’d have to deal.

If it had been just Ryan, Spencer would have accused the Dragon of doing taking them into Fairy territory on purpose. The Dragon hates Ryan. It’s hard to say who started it. On one hand, the Dragon growled when Ryan got to close, and called him a pussy. On the other, Ryan keeps mocking its size. The whole thing came to a exploding point two days ago, when Ryan started talking shit about metal. You don’t say screaming is a shitty musical choice to something that wears a modified Metallica onesie. The Dragon had gone for his throat, Spencer’d had to cover him like a blanket on the ground until Ray and Mikey calmed it down. But it’s not just Ryan, and as much as the majority are enjoying Gina and Zoe together, Spencer doubts the Dragon cares.

They’d waited almost an hour for the three to snap out of it. Not that it was a hardship to watch two girls have orgasm after orgasm together. After a while Spencer had stopped watching. It seemed wrong, somehow, even though they didn’t care or even notice the audience. He was more focused on finding a solution for Ryan anyway. The options were limited. The dudebros had all staunchly claimed heterosexuality like it was the most important thing in the world. The rest of the guys were less viciously straight but just as emphatically uninterested. Nate, the only one Spencer knew as gay and out, refused to cheat on Gabe. Spencer had been the only real option left for Ryan. But despite coming several times, Ryan was no closer to being flaccid or even lucid. So the group had made a decision to keep walking, considering there was no telling how long it would take and it was better to not waste the time. 

Spencer’d been able to convince Ryan to start walking. A hand on his ass fared a decent motivation. He’d been lucky to have a persuadable friend, any time anyone stepped near Gina and Zoe they started fighting the approacher off. Even drugged they were monogamous. It might have been sweet had it not been a horrible situation. In the end, they had to leave them behind. It was a shitty feeling, but necessary. At least they were safe, laid out and fucking. It was impossible to know what kind of danger the choir was in, and if every hour made a difference.

It’s all well and good to keep Ryan away from the other guys, drawing all the attention to himself. Spencer thinks he’s doing a good job of it; walking at the very back of the pack to keep the proximity up. Then, because people can never be shit on just once, the relative calm is broken when Travis shouts ‘holy shit’. Spencer braces himself for something terrible.

He’s right, sort of. In the grand scheme of things it’s probably good to stumble upon a nomadic tribe of Centaurs. Each has a bow and a packet of arrows. Between the thirty of them -well, twenty eight now- they have a baseball bat and a gun with only four bullets. A crossbow could be a useful addition to the arsenal. But in the narrow focus Ryan’s got right now, which boils down to _dick_ , well, Centaurs don’t wear pants.

The Centaurs don’t stop, and for a moment Spencer thinks things will be okay. And then Ryan starts to chase after the pack. Spencer spares a single moment to scrunch his face and silently swear at the gods before he chases after Ryan. He can hear Frank shouting ‘please stop please stop’, and he knows he means it in a different way than Spencer does. When he has a second he’s going to punch that asshole in the throat. 

He catches up too late. He’s only been running a few minutes, but Ryan’s hand is curled around the Centaur’s cock, and half the tribe are pointing loaded bows at him. Spencer’s definitely too late. Still, he has to reduce the damage before Ryan gets shot. If that’s even what it’s called with arrows. “Stop touching his junk!”

“You’ve got a really big dick.” Spencer has no doubt that the Centaur knows what he’s saying, Ray’s Dragon explained -rather bitchily- that any humans travelling to Otherworld hear language in their own tongue. The question is how the Centaur will react to the statement.

“Oh my God! Don’t kneel!” That’s the moment that Spencer turns into his grandmother and grabs Ryan by the ear and drags him back to the waiting group. The little miracle of the Centaurs not following them and shooting him is eclipsed completely by the fact that Frank Iero has literally pissed himself.

“Gross, Frank,” Mikey comments.

Still curled in the ground, Frank chokingly replies between laughs “Ryan Ross tried to give a horse a handjob. How are you not losing control of your bodily functions?”

Spencer would like to bury his face in his hands. He can’t, because Ryan is licking his jaw. He settles for sighing the epic sigh of a doomed man.

*

Brendon has to squint to see. His glasses were taken days ago. At least he thinks it was days ago. It could have been months, there’s really no telling. He’s gotten used to not thinking about it. He also doesn’t think about trying to bolt when the Dwarves fish him out of his cell every morning. Okay, he does _think_ about it. But it only takes watching someone get beaten to death by a heavy cane once for him to not actively do anything about it. His second or third day down in the mines the boy who was supposed to teach him what gems to look for tried to run. One of the Dwarves tripped him, and two others wailed into him with their switches until the kid was nothing more than a broken mess of blood and exposed bones. They’d left him there so they could pick their workers for the day, and the fourth Dwarf, who’d had a death grip on Brendon’s shoulder through the whole thing, dragged Brendon to his work station. 

Because of his size, they have him crawl into tiny spaces with a frail bucket trailing behind him for carting gems and stones in. He’s only pulled back up when they tug on the rope wrapped around his waist. He’s almost drowned twice. It should be impossible considering he’s in _caves_ , but for some reason it’s developed into a legitimate worry. Once was because the rocks around him were slick and he’d slipped into a pocket of river water that was flowing under him when he’d been pushed down that day’s crevice. The other was when his personal guard had suspected him of palming some of the gems. The Dwarf had pressed his face into a giant puddle that had formed from the condensation that always dripped in that portion of the caves. Only after the Dwarf had finished searching Brendon’s pockets for pilfered goods, did he step back and let Brendon try to catch his breath. 

One of the few good things about being chosen to be shoved down dank, gloomy holes is that he isn’t shackled like the majority of the people stuck here. From what he can tell, those picked to groom the Dragons that populate parts of the caves and the few who are judged proper size to take the shit jobs like Brendon are the only ones kept off the heavy chains that the Dwarves like to pull and shake whenever they want to be cruel. 

Another good thing is that besides the ‘dawn’ and ‘dusk’ shuffling to and from his cell, Brendon only has one guard. Once he’s separated from the sardine tin of male bodies, he only has to deal with ‘Doc’. Doc is mean, callous, and hot tempered, but he’s slightly better than the vile, ruthless, crowd of Dwarves that march the average miners to their daily slab of cave wall. 

Besides the time he tried to kill Brendon, Doc isn’t overtly violent even if he gets ridiculously gleeful when he ties the rope around Brendon’s waist extra tight. He also likes to poke Brendon in the side with his cane if Brendon doesn’t move fast enough for him. It’s not exactly Disney, but things could be worse. Brendon could have gotten chosen for something shittier than crawling down holes and trying to not get stuck, or dead. He does not envy those assigned to clean one of the Dragons' teeth.

He’ll never be able to watch Snow White or the Rescuers ever again. Well, that’s if he ever makes it back home. There’s a very large possibility he’ll be stuck here forever. A tiny voice in his head tries to tell him things will work out. Someone out there misses him and is trying their hardest to find him. He doesn’t think about his parents because he knows it won’t be them and that knowledge hurts too much to dwell on. Patrick likes to tell him that Pete wouldn’t have gone off on some half-assed quest without texting people about it first. Brendon’ll nod when Patrick says that because it’s just expected that Pete would come for him. He’s Patrick. Brendon’s not so sure about himself, or even if the guys would want to find him. It helps that Patrick’s been shoved into his cell most nights. Without him Brendon would probably be lost in morbid thoughts way too often and who knows what problems that could get him into.

The rope around his waist tugs sharply and he’s snapped out of his dreary thoughts. He hasn’t found anything of worth yet today, which means he’ll end up without supper tonight. Everyone in the cell knows Brendon doesn’t get anything if he’s empty handed. He’s not the only one though, there are others in his cell who get shoved down into old mine shafts and tiny holes and they get the same treatment. It’s supposed to be an incentive to finding gems or other valuables. Anyone who goes against the rule gets whipped. That doesn’t keep Patrick from slipping him tiny bits of crust when he can, if he’s around.

Doc starts pulling him up and Brendon’s left hand scrambles across something that feels unusual as he’s dragged by. He uses his right hand to pull on the rope and Doc stops his tugging. The bucket chaffs against his back. Brendon tries not to think about the raw spots that are there. His fingers sink into the cave side around the object and without thinking about it, he pulls. The weird looking gem comes free ridiculously easy and it’s no trouble finding other objects next to it that feel the same. Hopefully he’s found something that’s not junk. 

It isn’t until his fingers start to itch that Brendon realises something might be wrong. What’s left of his torn and ragged clothing feels soggy, worse than their usual sweat drenched state of being. There’s also a faint scent of what smells almost like petrol. When his fingers start to go numb, he lets the last maybe gem fall into his now heavy basket and tries to fumble with the rope around his waist. It’s hard to do.

Eventually, Doc drags him out of the hole and swears. He’s muttering something about fuel stones and hollering for someone. Brendon can’t really parse it out, everything’s blurrier than usual. Suddenly, there’s a sharp tug and he’s dragged down to the ground. The shock of cold, cold, wetness that covers his skin makes him splutter and wonder why Doc still doesn’t trust him. If he gets out of this place alive, he’s never going to look at rain puddles the same way he used to. Possibly pools, and definitely caves. He’ll have to make a list of things to avoid. 

The numb feeling recedes and Brendon goes to unsteadily climb out of the water. His clothing stays in the puddle. It’s almost as if it’s melted off of his skin. Even his much loved pair of falling apart Converse are no longer anything resembling shoes. Somehow his underwear doesn’t drip down his legs, like his torn and mucky jeans did seconds ago. 

There’s the sound of rough chuckling. Brendon looks up to find one of the other Dwarves laughing at him. Doc isn’t happy, but it isn’t until he turns and glares at his companion that Brendon thinks maybe Doc’s not angry at him. Aggravated perhaps, considering he has to deal with Brendon fucking up again but he seems more than happy to be mad at the other Dwarf instead. Doc wraps a steely grip around his arm and starts dragging him away, barking orders at his companion as they pass. The other Dwarf laughs, loud and harshly before bending to pick up Brendon’s discarded mining basket. 

Doc doesn’t release his tight hold, nor does he look at him. They pass through several tunnels on their way to wherever Doc is taking him. A Dragon snuffles in sleep when they slip by. Brendon tries his best not to shudder, even though up close Dragons are frightening. Their skin is dark and scaly with a stench of decay always clinging to them. Doc stops when they’re in a wide opening of one of the caves. Several dragons are laid out sleeping and it’s creepy as hell. Brendon looses the battle and shudders.

Doc prods him forward towards a pile of something soft looking. He leans over and fishes something crimson and fluffy from the pile. Brendon squints at the material when Doc shoves the cloth item into his hands. When Brendon shakes it out, the cloth is some sort of one piece garment. He almost drops it once he realizes it’s a dress, one of those that chicks wear at Renaissance Festivals.

Doc stares at him and uses his stick to poke at Brendon until he slips it on. Patches of the cloth feels stiff. When he looks down there’s a matted down spot that’s darker around the middle. There’s a good chance it’s blood. Brendon tries like hell not to think about it as Doc drags him back to the mines. Hopefully, when he gets shoved into his cell with everyone else they won’t do anything about the fact that he’s wearing a dress. Maybe Patrick will be around tonight, so none of the others will try something cruel and malicious.

*

As far as Ryland is concerned, they are not having good luck with villages. In the three weeks they’ve been travelling they’ve been in a few, and nothing good has ever happened. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. The Elf village replenished their food stores, and the Pixie village showed them a good time, and the Goblin village forged more bullets for Derrick’s gun. On the other hand, the Elves with their nearly translucent skin and waist length hair demanded all blondes shave their head as it was an offense -Quinn didn’t really care but Bob was not impressed and Frank made it worse by constantly climbing up Bob to run his head ‘for good luck’-, Travis and the dudebros had to kick about thirty Goblin asses before they gave up trying to kill them, and three of the group decided to stay with the Pixies. The main group is under orders to inform Jimmy of where the good drugs are when they find the choir, apparently Jimmy will want to stay too.

So when Ryland sees yet another village, he keeps walking towards it but he crosses his arms. They’ve fallen into a pattern, and surely something will go wrong here too. You don’t need a mushroom induced prophecy speaking cobra to see that in their future.

The village is comprised of small mismatched houses and businesses that create a loose ring around what looks to be a clear pool of water that sits in the center with smooth grey stones set around the edge of the water that’s gently lapping from the slight breeze that’s blowing. Closing out the ring is a long structure with the same reed covered roof as the houses have. In front of the structure are three stockades, rusted out buckles catching the sun when it peeks out from behind clouds. They’re close enough to the pool of water that one could be dragged from the stockade to the water’s edge in possibly three, maybe four, steps. The village looks small, but there’s a path that runs to the left of what has to be the communal lodge that Ryland would bet leads to more houses. Most likely the elders or important members of the village are the ones who live near the center. 

Stubby, birch colored trees arch and twist their branches towards the sun in a spot or two. Thorn bushes and bramble bushes skirt the area around the pieced together lodge. Other than that, and tiny patches of scrub grass sprouting up through the loose dirt in places, there’s not much greenery or cover to be seen. 

The villagers seem to be normal, average looking humans. Ryland’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. He’s edging towards not, but maybe he’ll be wrong. Their clothing is bland; the cuts aren’t flattering and very little color exists in the cloth. Aside from that they don’t seem too puritan. For one thing, from where he’s standing he can see a pub. The sign is incomprehensible, but you can’t really mistake the steins visible through the window.

It’s not much of a surprise that Jepha takes the first step forward. He’s got balls of fucking steel, public confidence that maybe even Gabe doesn’t have. He’s seventeen and he’s somehow scammed tattoo artists into half a dozen pieces scattered over his arms and back. “Hello.”

No one says anything, and for a minute Ryland worries they’ll be the first they’ve met that don’t speak English. They’ve met creatures that don’t speak at all, but that’s different. Jepha waits a minute then continues. “We’re looking for a place to relax and eat in trade for work, maybe somewhere to spend the night? I’m Jepha. If we could sit down somewhere, I’m sure the rest of us could introduce ourselves.”

A woman with straight, wheat colored hair stops. The little girl clinging to her hand stares at them for a beat or two before craning around to watch a bird an unusual shade of amber and yellow flutter its wings as it drinks from the stone ringed pool of water. 

“You want the ‘Silver Net’. Ask for Navi. The pub takes out in manual labor if you can not pay.”

She points to one of the bigger buildings to the right before tugging on the little girl’s hand and pulling her away from her bird watching. The other villagers continue about their business and Ryland shrugs to himself. Maybe not being considered a big deal will work in their favor.

The ‘Silver Net’ looks like any pub in the movies about fantasy quests. The wooden walls are stained dark in places and the lamp lighting is dim. There’s the smell of brine hanging heavily in the air of the pub and it mingles with the scent of ale, mead, larger, beer and stew that just sort of floats about. Jepha finds Navi -a thin man with sun bleached hair and tanned skin- near the bar and something’s worked out. Ryland’s not exactly sure what the terms are because he’s not close enough to hear, but soon enough they have a table and more than enough chairs for everyone. 

Lining one of the far walls are rows of grey-black pelts. The flickering of the lamp light makes it hard to tell what animal the skins came from, but they’re long and oval, almost like a stretched out Acme black hole only greyer. Ryland only knows one animal that could possibly fit that description and it seems a little weird that a village supposedly several hours inland would have seal pelts hung from the wall. And not just one or two, but what has to be at least twenty pelts or varying sizes and shades of grey and black. To the best of his knowledge, Selkies are the only humanoid creatures to exist who would have seal pelts laying about. Ryland hopes, _really fucking hopes_ , that’s not the case here though, because for some stupid reason Johnson’s near the pelts, just staring at them. No one seems to be paying any attention to what’s about to happen and Ryland’s too caught up in mentally trying to will Johnson not to do something extremely idiotic like touch one of the pelts to say anything.

Suddenly the pub goes quiet. It takes a second for their group to clue in and crane their heads as a collective to see what’s going down. Ryland wants to hit his head against the smooth, white of the round driftwood table. Johnson touched one of the pelts. Hell, he fucking _caressed it_ , and of course, like everything else during this motherfucking quest, there have to be complications.

A wisp of a woman, with long black hair and pale, pale skin, staggers to her feet from her seat near the bar. She says something unintelligible before lunging towards Johnson. Two of the patrons nearest to her gently wrap their arms around her. The broken glass bottle in her left hand shatters in front of her feet when she lets go of it, sagging into the hold of the two men crowding her.

Navi steps up to Johnson and motions for one of the burlier pub patrons to come close and restrain him.

“The fuck? Let go of him, asswipes.” It’s not particularly a surprise that Cash is calling out two guys that look like club bouncers. It’s just probably a shitty idea.

“It is unacceptable to touch our skins. Other transgressions could be looked over or worked out, but this is a grave offense. Until the proper judgement can be agreed upon, your friend will be locked in one of the stocks outside of the meeting house.”

Navi stops speaking to them and waves for the guy holding Johnson to take him away. That’s when William steps forward and does something just as stupid as Johnson touching one of the damn pelts. He goes on an activist rant.

“Your skins? Seriously? You’re some sort of gross animal murderers? I mean I get that you’d never heard of PETA, but that shit is fucked up. How about a jacket made out of something that’s not innocent baby animals. Johnson should have thrown them out, never mind just touched them. Fucking filthy.”

It’s very nice that William and Gabe met during a protest. Ryland will never stop eating meat, and he suspects that they’ll never stop giving him shit for it. Gabe won’t make out with Nate after he’s grabbed fast food, says he can taste murder on his lips. But that’s all for the real world. Here you’d think William would have more brains than to go off on an anti-fur diatribe, considering that even if he hasn’t figured out that they’re Selkies, it still has to be obvious they’re really attached to the pelts. He's not at all surprised when the Selkies fury doubles.

“So this judgement thing,” Travis starts. “What’s likely to go down?”

“Unless there’s a compelling reason-”

“And know that there has never been, in the history of this village-” a citizen further back shouts over Navi.

“Unless there is a compelling reason, the pervert will have the offending flesh razed, and those that defend his actions will be treated with the same to a lesser degree.”

“Wait. Razed? Doesn’t that mean, like, destroyed?” Quinn whispers to his friends. Ryland doesn’t have to look over to know Jepha or Dan is nodding. He got 710 on his S.A.T.s, he knows what razed means.

“Holy fuck they’re gonna cut off my hands! Ian don’t let them cut off my fucking hands!” The words are panicked, and Johnson starts full out screaming as they drag him out of the pub. The Selkies follow in a group and so do they. Ian and Marshall both have a hand on Cash, presumably so he doesn’t do anything to make this any worse. Ryland’s happy he doesn’t have to explain that punching a Selkie would be a bad idea.

Nothing goes down though. Just like Navi said, William and Johnson are taken to the middle of the village. Their arms and heads are forced into the depressions of the planks, and the tops are swung down. The bouncer-Selkies aren’t very gentle, but neither are splintered or bleeding when they’re finished.

“Okay, I dunno if you normally have trials with arguments presented. But we’re human, you have to allow us that. I’m going to speak for the both of them.”

William sighs with relief at Travis’ words. Ryland understands that. They’ve been friends since forever. If Ryland was ever in deep shit and he couldn’t have a real lawyer, he’d want Alex to watch his back.

“The rest of you are welcome back at the pub, or to find shelter. Any attempt at aiding escape will make you as guilty as the pervert by our law.” With that Navi turns and walks away, his citizens following him. There’s nothing else really to do but to follow them. The pub has cooked food, it’s a hearty lure. Ryland hasn’t had anything but crackers and dried meat in a week.

Ryland is very happy he’s not in the pillory. It’s not that he doesn’t care that they are. William’s been a close friend for a while. Gabe’s friends with benefits have always been just as much friend as benefit, and when he stopped putting out for anyone but Nate, they all stayed friends. Except Eliza, she went psycho. And while Ryland didn’t know Johnson before this, three weeks of constant walking and talking and occasional fending off predators make for a pretty good bonding experience. Maybe that’s what he’ll do after high school; become a motivational speaker for large corporations and take them on trips to the Otherworld. You’d lose an employee or two each time, but the rest would come out friends for life. He cares that Johnson is locked in the pillory for a mistake, and William is in for being offensive trying to save Johnson’s ass. Really, he does. But there’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing Alex can do either, or Victoria, or Cash. Travis is the only one that can solve this drama. Travis is a good guy to put your faith in.

So Ryland sits, mostly not worried, in the corner of the pub. He’s alone, his entire table has gone their separate ways. William’s gone, obviously. Travis is preparing an argument so they don’t chop off Johnson’s hands and cane William. Nate and Victoria are probably somewhere smoking the weeds that aren’t marijuana -but are close enough- that they got from the Pixies. He wouldn’t put it past them to sneak out in a few hours under the cover of darkness to get William high too. He’s probably pretty stressed, standing in the middle of the village locked in position. There’s no question of where Alex is. In times of stress he needs food; eating or preparing doesn’t matter as long as it’s in hand. He’ll be in the kitchen until the group leaves, intact limbs or not. 

Ryland doesn’t particularly like being alone, he’s never been a lone wolf. The fact remains though, that there’s no reason for him to go with any of them. He obviously doesn’t want to be with William. Travis brainstorms best alone, an improv artist he is not. Ryland doesn’t have any skills needed for cooking, he can’t even do that super fast chopping thing. It would be hypocritical to tell Nate and Victoria to not get fucked up, he enjoyed the same harsh yellow smoke a week ago, but he just doesn’t feel like it.

His once full round table has been stripped down; all their chairs have been reclaimed by other Selkies mere moments after each friend’s departure. Ryland wouldn’t be surprised if at some point they take his table. It’s getting to be dinner time, at least human dinner time, there’s bound to be a rush. Before that happens though, he can hear Lars cursing about assholes taking all the seats and where the fuck is Ray. Ryland’s on his feet waving him over before he can even really think about what he’s doing.

“You okay with sharing? I think you could fit on the armrest.” It’s skinny, but not too skinny, and Lars isn’t exactly large.

Lars doesn’t answer until he’s already perched on the wood, leaning against Ryland like a human would use a cushion. “It’s like ‘oh, you have wings, you must not want to ever land’. Like Dragons don’t rest too. Fucking Selkies, think they’re so good because they can switch forms.”

Ryland is a good friend. He knows when Victoria wants to talk and when she wants to bitch, he knows when Travis wants input on a stoned ramble, he knows when Nate needs advice and when he just needs to vent. He would like to be a good friend to Lars, and talk or stay silent as needed. But he doesn’t know him well enough to know whats needed. Lars has mostly stayed with Ray and Mikey, and by extension Bob and Frank. “uh, you want me to contribute to Selkies, The Reasons For Their Suckage, or would you rather I stay quiet?”

Lars snorts. A tiny puff of grey smoke comes out. Ryland does his best to not gawk. “I like you. Maybe not as cool as Mikey, but then that’s not your fault.”

Ryland only hesitates a second before asking Lars just how he met Mikey. He’s not being an anthropologist digging into Lars’ private life and showing it off. Anyone would ask the same of any friend.

“Well, I was one of the first out. I was a baby, way too tiny to really take care of myself. This vicious feral cat fucking attacked me, god I hate fucking cats. Fuck. Ray found me, took me home and patched me up. I was too young to talk yet, but he still treated me like I was intelligent, asked my opinion on what music he should play when he was doing homework. Dude taught me to headbang. His parents were a bit freaked out, but his older brother Lou was cool. Horrible tastes though. As soon as I could talk I told Ray to delete St Anger from his computer, Lou actually said he thought it was over hated, and that it was good. Seriously.”

Ryland says what he always says when one of his friends rants about the discography of a band he doesn’t listen to. “I haven’t heard all their stuff, I clearly suck. When we get back I’ll give them a try.”

“Yeah, there’s no fucking electric guitars here. It sucks. So anyway, then Ray’s weird little friend Mikey was all ‘I made you something to wear’, and I’d seen pictures of his cat, so I got a bit tough because there was no fucking way I was about to wear ears. Instead he pulls out this modified Metallica onesie. I never thought I’d be able to have merch, you know? So pretty much an instant best friend at that point.”

“That’s pretty awesome.” Mikey Way doesn’t look like much of a seamstress -seamster?- but Lars looks pretty comfortable in what he’s wearing.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find some way to impress me. I mean Lou was all ‘I got you a poster’, but it’s not like you can wear a poster, he was just jealous. But I don’t not like Lou. Dragons are capable of more than one friend. At least Coastal ones. Sea dragons are pretty individual, and Land Dragons are just assholes.” 

Ryland grins. By the time they get Gabe back, he’s gonna have a new best friend. 

*

The sun’s brutal. It’s the only thing in the sky at the moment, no clouds or tree foliage to obscure it. Lars is riding on his shoulder and Ray’s sweating through his shirt. They’ve been walking for several hours by now and the landscape around them has been getting increasingly more empty and barren ever since the Selkie village. 

Ray has to hand it to Travis. He doesn’t really know the guy besides what he’s learned during this quest to mutually find their lost friends, but he wasn’t expecting Travis to appeal to the Selkies in a way that would keep Johnson and William from being convicted and punished for their actions. Hell, Ray was sure they’d end up having the highest punishment thrown at them. Travis somehow worked it out that none of that happened and everyone got to walk away. It means they can’t go back to the village, but Ray doesn’t think that’s going to matter in the long run anyways. 

There’s the sound of water tripping in the air above them and Ray stops thinking about the Selkie village. He’s not the only one that hears it, someone -Cash, maybe- busts out with the South Park rendition of ‘water, Helen, water!’ and there’s William talking about how much he wants to wash off.

Abruptly, the ground dips and the dirt changes to sand. In front of them, the land disappears and bright blue water languidly licks at where the land touches it. When Ray turns his head to the right he can see the shoreline, but past that there’s nothing except water. It makes sense that they’d find an ocean eventually. Just their luck, really.

Lars jumps from his shoulder and flaps his wings some before catching a lowdraft with enough lift to make flying easy. So, ocean to the right, on their left there’s still solid ground. If Ray’s judging the sloping in the distance correctly though, he’d bet that if they go that way they’ll end up finding themselves walking off the edge of a pretty steep cliff. 

Past the water in front of them is more land, what has to be another continent. It curves and almost touches the land mass they’re on. However there’s still a pretty decent gap and sea water flows through it. It reminds Ray of the Panama Canal. Of course geography class would have to have some wacked out need to make itself known even here in Otherworld. 

Sure enough, if Ray follows the shoreline of the land on the other side of the water he can barely make out the jutting of cliffs to the left. Which means they’ll have to either wade -swim- across the lagoony inlet body of water, or take their chances with the cliffs.

One of Dustin’s jock friends walks right up to the edge of the water and shrugs. “We could make it. Doesn’t look any worse than fifteen laps in a pool.”

The rest of Dustin’s friends nod and make their way over to the water’s edge.

“Yeah, and what about sharks? Jaws might be cruising by waiting for an easy snack. No thank you.” Mikey shouts his approval after Nate’s done protesting. He’s never really liked sharks. Ray doesn’t think sharks are likely, but there’s still something about the water that makes him hesitate.

“Oh come on, the water’s too clear for creepy crawlies.”

“We’ll be fine. Don’t be pussies.”

Before anyone else can make complaints, Dustin’s friends wade into the lagoon and make their way towards the opposite shoreline. Lars settles back on Ray’s shoulder and snorts. Ray barely makes out the tiny puff of smoke. He doesn’t even have to ask before Lars nudges his head with a wing, slightly to the right of the guys swimming. There’s something out there, causing ripples and tiny waves to disturb the water. Ray can’t make out any shark fins. Then what looks like a glistening green fish tail peeks out of the water. It vanishes as quickly as it appeared, quickly enough that Ray’s not sure if he’s seeing things right. 

Lars sighs against Ray’s ear. “Everything’s food or not food to those fuckers. Guess what Coastal Dragons would be?”

No one gets a chance to yell a warning before the water ripples around the dudebros. One after another they get pulled under the water. It’s like watching Alex Kintner getting eaten when Devon pops back out of the water and screams shrilly. Blood spurts and arcs in the air. The water turns pink and Devon gets dragged back under, the water cutting off his screams. 

Marshall takes a few steps closer to help before Cash grabs his arm. “Not a battle we’re gonna win, dude. Unless you count being meat as winning.”

It’s not how Ray would phrase it, but it’s true. No one can do anything. 

Soon enough, everything’s over with. A ripple of a wave breaks against the shoreline at their feet and a mauled looking Nike bumps into the sand. It’s ripped and barely recognizable, pink blood staining the fabric where it can and oozing out when it’s not absorbed. Ray’s not going to bend over and check to see if the jut of white sticking from one of the holes is bone or not. Some things he just doesn’t need to know. 

They’ve only been on the shore minutes. If his watch still worked he’d know exactly how long it took for Mermaids, _fucking Mermaids_ , to brutally rip apart and drown five athletic guys. He hopes they drowned before the Mermaids bit down. Before now, none of their questing group had been killed. It’s always been a possibility, they all told themselves it was possible. Lars even gave a short speech before forcing the Changeling to find them a tear. But they’ve gotten complacent, laughing off when they lose people to sex and drugs. Steve finding really good Pixie mushrooms is nothing like this.

Ray can tell when it finally settles in across the group that this really is a suicidal folly of an idea. The silence changes. No one backs down though. They could. The way things work, any creature can tear open a hole from Otherworld, it’s the people that can’t get here from Earth. Someone could scream at Lars that they want to go home, and he could send them home.

But they don’t. As a group they take a few steps back from the water and start walking. If they can’t cross the lagoon by water, then that means they need to find a way across the cliffs. Their friends want to go home too, and they don’t have a Lars. They only have the faith that someone will come for them. Ray won’t fail Gerard, and no one else will fail theirs.

*

The D Posse’s deaths only mean one thing to Pete, that they better figure out a different way to Patrick. Maybe that’s coldhearted, but everything in life is. He’s known for a while now; you first, loved ones next, everyone else a distant third. He’s known for a while that Patrick comes before himself on his list. It doesn’t even matter if it’s reciprocated, it’s just the way it is.

So they walk the bank of the canal, because what else can they do? Tensions are high after witnessing the brutal murder of five peers, but in the end they’re still teenagers. It’s called resiliency, being able to function after seeing or acting out horrors. Pete doesn’t do therapy, but he knows his terms. So it’s hardly a surprise that Quinn smokes up the Pixie weed with Alex and Johnson, or that Frank starts asking Bob for a piggyback and Bob threatens to push him off the cliff. If they were unadaptable they wouldn’t have come on the search in the first place.

Pete stays out of most of the conversations. He’s been on the edge of a breakdown for weeks now, and once he breaks only two people have the power to put him back together again. Monica is still in the tough love program, and Patrick is unavailable. So he has to keep his splinters together, and the best way to do that is to not interact.

Still, sometimes he has to jump in. He starts listening when Frank says out of nowhere, “we are the worst fellowship ever. Jesus. Like, an entire group of Merrys would do this better.”

Mikey shakes his head. “Pippins. Like twenty Pippins wouldn't be this faily.”

Dan smirks. “You guys are fuckin’ nerds.”

While he knows Mikey at least enough to know that’s actually true, Pete knows Dan’s wrong in this instance. Lord of the Rings is totally common enough to not be nerdy. Besides, “you got the reference. What does that make you?”

Apparently his defence isn’t quite enough. Frank snaps out “And you’re a fucking douche. At least I’m not shoved up a dirty old vagina.”

Pete starts laughing. Dan looks for a second like he’s going to start a fight, and then Quinn and Jepha start laughing too, and he calms down.

As they’ve been walking the water that was once lapping just to the right of them has moved to be way below them. It’s windier also, and there are still very few trees to come by. The sky above them is clear. So far they haven’t found a way across yet even though the other side is right there. It sucks beyond belief that there’s a space and one hell of a drop between them and the other side. 

Eventually they come to a bridge. It’s a classic Indiana Jones piece of shit, a rope with wooden planks swaying in the breeze. But it’s still a bridge, which means it can take them over the water. The problem is in front of the bridge is a Dwarf. Unlike the Elves a while back, Tolkien got Dwarves pretty dead on. Short as hell, long reddish hair, and covered in weapons. This one has the hilts of two swords peeking out from the dark leather belts that cross the front of his body like an x.

“Excuse me,” Alex starts. “We’ve gotta use the bridge. So.”

“None shall pass!” He sounds like a stereotypical Dwarf too, voice like gravel grinding together.

“We could pay you. A toll, or whatever.” Pete can’t see that working, a Dwarf is not a Troll. Of course, if it was a Troll they’d probably be dead already. One of the first creatures that came through a tear -before the OEA was even set up- was a Troll, and it killed over a hundred people at a shopping center.

“None shall pass!”

“Anyone else wanna quote Holy Grail?” Frank snickers.

Bob scowls at him. “Anyone else want to keep their fucking limbs?”

Pete has a plan. Basically he’s going to goad the Dwarf into fighting him, distract him while the rest of the guys run across the bridge, and when they’re all over the bridge he’ll run too. It’s a good plan.

“How about you give me one of those and we’ll see who bests who?” He doesn’t know shit all about swords or how to handle them, but if he tries to punch the Dwarf he’ll probably get his arm cut off.

“I’ve fought many a man.”

“Really? They let kids fight men where you’re from?” Step one of any fight, always talk shit.

“Excuse me?”

“Well you’re so teeny tiny, I’m just surprised that they let children fight men. But I guess Gnomes are crazy like that.”

“I am no child!”

“Oh, so all Gnomes look like toddlers? I dunno if you understand that, lemme explain-”

“Pete-” Travis calls out. Pete ignores him. Even if he didn’t have to do this, he wants to. This thing is what’s in between him and Patrick. If he could he would take him down with a lawn mower.

“Toddlers is the Human word for a tiny child so incapable they shit themselves and cry for their mommies on a daily basis. If you say you’re not one I guess I should believe you though, right? It’s not your fault you’re ridiculously short. I guess it’s evened out by the tiny patches of hair you got growing. Makes you a little bit manly.”

The Dwarf says nothing, but his ruddy toned hand goes to stroke the braid hanging from his chin. Travis tells him again to shut up, but Pete’s only just begun. Beards are clearly a sore spot, and Pete had experience on how to go for sore spots with a pick axe.

“I think it needs some work though. It’s really raggedy looking, patchy. Have you thought about shaving off your ass hair and using it to fill the blank patches? Assuming that that hair isn’t covered in shit, of course. Even you would probably notice if you had shit on your face. Maybe not though, you look kinda dirty. When was the last time you bathed? I hope it was after you were done fucking your goats. You wouldn’t want to smell like goat come, right? Well, maybe you do. I don’t know you.”

The Dwarf goes for his sword. Pete grins grimly. In a second he’ll come forward and everyone else will be able to sneak behind him. He jerks his head at them, trying to tell them without words to get ready. They don’t seem to get the memo though, everyone is just staring. And then Travis starts trying to talk the dwarf down! “Maybe you better shut up about his sweet beard. His beard is waaaay too awesome to diss, right William?”

“I’ve been growing out my hair for a while, but yours is way more glorious. _Right_ , Pete?”

Fuck that. “Suck my salty pubes, Dwarf.”

The tip of the sword is against his adam’s apple. Huh. He really wasn’t expecting the Dwarf to move so quickly. Or to be able to reach his neck, honestly.

“Look, before you kill the dumbass, is there any way that we can strike up a deal or something?” If Pete makes it out of this alive, he’s definitely gonna call Jepha an asshole for calling him a dumbass.

“The only beings that have ever passed have bested the guard in swordsmanship. This hairless one could do nothing of the kind. Turning away, before I slit him throat to intestines.”

Of all people, Cash steps forward. “My parents belong to a country club. It’s like every fucking day in the summer. I’d rather go to bible camp, at least then everyone is secretly having circle jerks. Heatherington is just douches playing polo. But I know how to fence. So pass me a fucking broadsword please?”

Pete finds it as hard to believe as the Dwarf evidently does. Cash Colligan draws diamonds and dollar signs on his skin in Sharpie. But the Dwarf unsheaths the second sword and passes it. Cash almost drops the sword before he gets a grip on the handle. Pete’s sure he hears a whispered “shit, bastard is heavy” before Cash decides to try both hands instead of just one. 

The Dwarf doesn’t give Cash any time to get used to the weapon. Everyone backs away from the action when Cash stumbles as the swords connect for the first time. It’s loud, the sound of metal striking metal damn near deafening. Pete’s expecting Cash to trash talk the Dwarf like he did, but Cash sticks to swearing under his breath while he tries to not get sliced or walked off the edge of the cliff side. No one else is even talking. It’s almost as if they’re all afraid to say something and accidentally get Cash killed. Pete can understand that. They’ve already lost people today and another death isn’t exactly high on their list of to do’s. 

The Dwarf’s agile as fuck. However, Cash, once he’s adjusted to the weight and grip of his borrowed sword, seems to be just as fucking adept at twisting and slipping away from the extremely sharp looking blade of the Dwarf’s sword. Cash feigns to the left and the Dwarf reads his actions easily enough and lunges to the right. Instead of being caught offguard, Cash goes with the motion of their swords clashing and lets it drag him closer. The Dwarf’s not expecting that and Cash is able to topple the both of them to the ground.

Swords clatter to the dirt and Cash keeps rolling the Dwarf away from anything sharp and pointy. Dust kicks up around them and for a minute Pete’s sure the Dwarf has Cash pinned. When the wind blows most of the dust away, it’s the Dwarf who’s pinned. Cash has an uncapped ballpoint pen pressing up against the Dwarf’s pulse point, it’s barely noticeable because the Dwarf’s braided beard is in the way, but Pete would know a fucking pen just by the sliver that’s peeking out from Cash’s clenched fist.

“Yield.” The Dwarf doesn’t seem to like that idea, if his sudden burst of another language means anything. “Yield or it goes in and you bleed out.”

“I yield.”

For the next minute everything is silent. Then the Dwarf starts in on something about owing Cash a boon for sparing his life. Pete doesn’t really listen, just pushes past the group to step onto the bridge. Patrick is either ahead, or two weeks behind them in the other direction, and Pete needs it to be the first.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the Dwarf’s promise, none of them are confident that he won’t kill them all in their sleep. It’s hard to trust the word of a non-human, even if that is bigoted. Especially when they have a sword. So before they start spreading out their sleeping bags that night, they decide to have a sentry. Technically they should have had one before now. If Ryland thinks about it, it seems like the Beetlejuice scare would have taught them a lesson, but it didn’t. He blames not having a lot of experience mounting an expedition.

For whatever reason, they choose Ian. It makes sense at the time, even though five minutes later Ryland couldn’t say why he was picked. Ian doesn’t seem particularly thrilled by the position, but he doesn’t protest either, just fully unzips his bag to drape it around him like a cloak as his friends lay down beside him.

Ryland is one of the few still awake when Lars flies back. They’ve all learned that Pete and Mikey don’t sleep a lot, and he thinks he can hear Dan jerking off, but for the most part they’re sleeping. In the moonlight Ryland can see pretty decently, well enough to notice Lars’ distended belly. He’s obviously found the food he went out searching for.

To Ryland’s surprise, Lars settles on Ian’s shoulder rather than nesting by Ray, or talking to Mikey. Just as he’s wondering if Lars is slowly making friends with the entire group -a pang of jealousy hits but Ryland tries to push it away, there’s no laws that say someone can only have three friends- Lars springs into the air, wing violently smacking Ian in the face. “Deceiver!”

Lars’ diatribe about punk teens pretending to be Ray is loud enough to wake most of the group. Ryland doesn’t really see it, besides the poofy hair they don’t look much alike. He doesn’t intervene to tell Lars that, or say anything at all. Watching him beat Ian is too entertaining to break up. And it seems the opinion of the majority. Johnson and Marshall and Cash are awake but laughing, because that’s what you do with friends. Ryan Ross, in a Barbie Princess bag he apparently borrowed from Spencer’s sister, can only be seen for a second before he pulls the puffy pinkness higher. It’s probably a good idea on his part. Lars already hates him, if he tried to intervene it would only change the target. Ryland could probably intervene, he’s pretty sure Lars likes him, but he’d rather watch. You don’t get a lot of entertainment in Otherworld.

Ryland’s a pretty light sleeper, something that’s a pain in the ass when camping with what used to be two dozen others. It quickly becomes obvious Ray isn’t, is actually the complete opposite. Lars is screeching as he repeatedly dive bombs the ‘deceiver’. With each dive Ian swears and his friends laugh. The entire group is awake now, but none of it wakes Ray. 

Ian manages to get across the sea of sleeping bags and staring, half-sitting bodies to Ray. He grabs him through the hand painted pixilated Mega Man sleeping bag and starts shaking him. “Ray you asshole, call him off! He’s going for the eyes!”

The frustrated shouting doesn’t wake Ray. It takes Mikey shoving his fingers up Ray’s nostrils and him waking up coughing to rouse him. Even then Ray just analyzes the situation with one half open eye, mutters at Lars to leave him alone and rolls back over. Lars flies a few inches away from Ian with a glare, but neither seem mollified. It’s clearly up to him to settle Lars. Marshall can take care of Ian.

It takes a while to calm Lars down. Eventually he resorts to a metal singalong. He prompts Lars with the only lyric of Enter Sandman he knows, and it goes from there. The conversation changes several times, from selling out, to product placement in movies, to horror vs comedy and what a part nine of a franchise should count as. Ryland learns some interesting things about Coastal Dragons, the most relevant being it takes them a long time to differentiate between faces. To Lars it’s natural to assume someone that looks like Ray is doing it on purpose.

At some point in the night -no one much trusts watches any more- Ray gets up and stumbles off a decent distance to pee. There’s no specified distance, but no one wants to roll over and find a pool of piss beside them. Lars seems to take the movement as a prompt, he soars off his shoulder so he can look Ryland in the face as he speaks. “You should hook up with Ray so you’re around all the time once we get back.”

“I’m not gay?” It comes out more questioning than it should. He’s really not. He’s got absolutely nothing against Gabe and Nate and everyone else that’s ever enjoyed themselves, but there’s nothing about cock that interests him.

“Have you tried?”

“Uh?” It’s not fair that he’s being asked this, when he’s never once asked Nate if he’s ever tried girls, maybe he’d like them. 

“Go try!”

Lars is insistent, and Ryland's maybe a little loopy from not sleeping. He stands and wanders in the direction of Ray. Thankfully he catches him after he’s got his dick tucked back in and sweat pants pulled up. It’s a short kiss that if anything is less sexual than kissing an aunt at Christmas. At least his Aunt Cleo has breasts that are always on the verge of falling out of her low cut festive green shirts. 

When he pulls away, Ray is staring at him, wide eyed. “Sorry. Lars told me to. I think he wants us to hook up so he can have two daddies, just like Heather.”

“I’m not bi.”

Ryland nods. “Yeah, neither am I. It sort of puts a crimp in his plans, huh.”

*

Ray isn’t jealous per se that Lars is spending a lot of time with Ryland. It didn’t bother him when Lars spent time with Lou, or Mikey, and if Lars has found a new friend in Ryland that’s fine. He doesn’t fucking own him, he’s not a pet. Lars is his own person.

That’s the problem in a nutshell, really. They’re walking, and Jepha starts talking about Griffins in the distance, but as they come closer it’s obvious they’re Dragons. Ray feels Lars flutter on his shoulder. The facts of Lars’ life hit him in a split second. Accidentally thrust through a tear between the worlds, and adopted by a dumb teenager. He hasn’t seen another Dragon in four years. Ray can’t even imagine being away from Lou for four months.

Ray could do nothing. Lars is frozen into silence beside him. If Ray did nothing, they might fly past unaware. But that’s not fair to Lars. So he waves the arm that Lars isn’t perched on and shouts “Hey! Dragons! Come here!”

One of the Dragons banks left enough to get the attention of his or her friends and suddenly there’s five Coastal Dragons perched on the various branches of a dead tree that’s barely keeping itself upright. A pale yellow Dragon tilts its head and says “Greetings.” Lars flutters against Ray’s shoulder again before gruffly muttering something that could maybe be considered a hi.

“Is there anything we’re needed for cousin? Your servant hailed us and normally we would not have dallied to come and investigate, but occasionally curiosity gets the better of us.”

The yellow Dragon stretches out one wing slowly. To Ray the motion seems to be measured and almost pretentious. Lars doesn’t seem like these Dragons, and Ray can’t really blame him. They’re too formal, while he’s more laid back. Ray’s trying not to dwell on the fact that the yellow Dragon called him a servant, like he doesn’t matter here. Lars makes a huff of a sound from his perch on Ray’s shoulder. He’s probably about to say something derogatory when an ember-orange dragon decides to speak first. 

“Pray tell cousin, what is that horrid garment you are wearing? Don’t you know how shameful it is to cover yourself?” Her voice sounds almost bored and Ray imagines that if she were human, she’d be slowly examining her nails for chips in the polish of her new manicure. 

“It’s Metallica, bitches!”

“Pardon?”

Ray is expecting Lars to burst into song, he’s just not sure which one. “As I was goin' over, the Cork and Kerry mountains, I saw Captain Farrell and his money he was countin'. I first produced my pistol, and then produced my rapier, I said stand and deliver or the devil he may take ya!”

The ember-orange dragon tilts her head down and to the left almost like a bird trying to catch the sound of something foreign it can’t comprehend. “I do not believe we know this paltry tune you speak of. Perhaps it is popular with the lesser species.” 

Ray is expecting Lars to explode. Before he has a chance, the mint green Dragon asks “how did you escape?”

“Escape what?”

“Your indentured service, of course,” chirps a pastel purple Dragon trying its best to stare down a cricket hopping across one of the branches. His voice drifts up in the air distractedly and trails off.

The ember-orange Dragon takes over again. “We’ve never known our distant relations, hulking bulks of sulfur and heat that they are, to allow anyone freedom from the mines before their terms were up.” 

The mint green Dragon blows a huff of grey smoke into the air and speaks again. “Which translates to never, to be put simply.” 

Travis crosses his arms. “Why the fuck do you think we’re from mines?”

“You’re Human, aren’t you?”

“Our cousins have recently acquired new Humans from the Sirens. You seem new to this place. Are you not?”

“No, we’re fucking not. You’re saying these Dragons have our friends?”

Lars hisses. “That’s not good.”

Mikey and Pete turn on Lars and ask almost in unison “what’s not good?”

“The mines. Coastal, Land, Sea, we all have different attitudes towards other species. Land Dragons tend to use others for their dirty work.”

“If that’s all, we really must be off.” The mint one does an impatient swoop in midair.

“No. Wait, just like thirty seconds. I need to talk to Lars for a minute.” The Dragons look put out but they don’t take off. Ray walks a good distance away from the rest of the group and Lars follows him. 

He’s not going to cry. He won’t. if he does it’ll be manipulative, and that’s not fair to Lars. He curls his fingers into the ends of his hair and tugs a bit. It’s a soothing gesture. “I understand if you want to stay here with them. I mean, they’re your family.”

“Bitch, please. They don’t have iPods here. Or speakers, or electric guitars. Also, I am only saying this once and _never again_ , but they don’t have you, so.”

Ray can’t help himself. He reaches up and pulls Lars out of the air into a hug. Lars immediately starts to complain, voice muffled against Ray’s chest. “What the fuck! Get off of me! Stupid human. For fucksakes!” Ray lets go and Lars flies a few feet out of Ray’s arm span. “Okay, I’m going to go hang out with Ryland now. Or Mikey. Or that shrub over there.”

“The shrub?”

“It doesn’t _molest_ me! That’s the important part.”

When they return the group of Dragons have broken their word, they’ve flown off. Ray’s not bothered though, since Lars doesn’t want to be with them. “Thanks for staying.”

“Oh shut up. Stop fishing for compliments. You’re better. Even if you are a straight douchebag that won’t make an honest man out of Ryland.”

Ryland isn’t standing near enough to hear, but Ray’s friends are. Mikey and Frank burst into laughter. They’ve been enjoying the failed gay thing for a few days now. It’s the problem with being the lone straight man in a sea of bisexual friends, any advances get you snickered at. Still, he can fight this statement. “Hey! Why am I the straight douchebag? Ryland's just as straight.”

“Ryland kissed you. Did you even _try_ to give him a handjob?”

Ray doesn’t bother to reply to that. It’s unlikely he could even be heard over Frank’s hysterical laughter and choked threats of peeing again. At least he gets to kick Frank’s toppled over form as the group begins to trudge forwards again; this time with an actual clue of where to go. Plus ten minutes later Frank tries to claim a piggyback ride from Bob and Bob threatens to push him off the side of the cliff. It’s nice.

*

It’s like being inverted, insides pulled out and twisted until they’re skin instead of internal organs, but the pain isn’t as intense as it was. Greta feels floaty now. She’s never done drugs before, and she’s not even sure this is what being high feels like. Yet there’s this disconnect between her sense of past self, body awareness, and everything that’s been happening around her. So maybe she is, even if she can’t tell. 

Her memories are hard to think about. She knows they should be there, however, every image that does decide to surface is sun faded and she can barely make out the features of people she should know. What’s worse, or maybe better -her mind can’t decide- is that she doesn’t care. It’s more like this knowledge that she should know; that last little shred of self that a ghost clings to so it doesn’t fade away after death.

Maybe it’s for the best this way, because Greta’s better this way. When the wind blows, it cards playful fingers through her hair, and the sensation feels wonderful. The water of the nearby stream bubbles brightly enough to chatter with with the chipmunks that like to crawl up into the trees. She feels at home, even though a tiny voice keeps trying to tell her, ’ _No, that’s wrong_ ’. Every time the sun sets for the night that voice gets fainter and fainter. Soon it won’t exist anymore.

There’s the sound of claws scraping bark, and one of her sisters gingerly steps into their family nest. The soft rushes, and grass woven into the broken sticks of the nest make Greta tired. She’s still so young and her sisters have been taking care of her. They hum encouragements and happiness into her skin when they hold her close. They run sharp fingertips through her hair to check for wayward insects, or trace careful claws through the downy feathers that pepper her arms and neck. Sometimes she gets bored though, and her thoughts wander into the places that make her wonder, until one of her sisters pop up and remind her of their family. 

In minutes the rest of her sisters are home. They nuzzle her cheek before backing away to form a circle in the nest. The sister closest to her nudges a wrapped leaf against her clawed fingers. She’s still not allowed to forage for her own meals yet, but soon she’ll be free to frolic in the forest with her sisters, a happy tune slipping from all of their lips almost constantly.

The eldest sister twists her legs under her to get comfortable before her voice rings out richly in the falling darkness of night. She’s telling another story about their history. Once, hundreds of years ago, their numbers were vast and the forest was filled with their song. Other Earth used to supply them with their family regularly as a tithe, the young being presented after careful selection. Rarely were the families displeased with the offerings.

However, as time progressed onward, those worshippers died or converted to other faiths and the Sirens numbers dropped. Then, when a great war slithered across the land, even more of their families fell, until only four were left to continue the bloodline and search for their young. 

Greta’s birth and those of her age mates are a celebration. They’re the first healthy younglings in at least two decades. Her sisters crowd closer to her when the story ends and Greta sighs contently as her eyelids droop so sleep can wrap around her, much the same way her sisters do. Soon she’ll meet her age mates and things will finally be bright again.

*

They’ve only been working an hour when the Dwarves get everyone to stop what they’re doing. Of course the Dwarves do this by whacking them with their fucking canes, and since that’s usually the signal for working faster, it takes a while to get it. Just once, Gerard would like to get an order. His fucking kingdom for a ‘hurry up’ instead of being hit on the goddamn calves.

When everyone has stopped, they get smacked a few more times -which evidently means put down your tools- and then the Dwarves start herding them towards a part of the cave system he’s never seen before. Not just his chain line, but everyone. The march end up outdoors. Gerard wants to yell at everyone to run, but his leg is cuffed and if just one refuses to participate they’re all going down.

The opportunity only lasts a moment before they’re being all shoved into cages. They’re far larger than the sleeping cells, which only hold five. There’s got to be forty guys in here. Gerard catches a Dwarf grabbing a Russian by the hair and unlocking his foot chain, and marching him over to the next cage. Apparently there has to be exactly forty. There are a few girls too, evidently the Dragons don’t get all their workers from the Sirens. 

The Dwarves start unlocking all their foot chains. Gerard thinks again about bolting, until he sees the one standing just outside the door with a sword in either hand. It’ll be hard getting back to Jersey without a head.

They don’t say anything about the relocation, of course, just walk out when they’re done. The vast majority sit down, prizing rest as high as someone would prize a convertible at home. Gerard stays standing. Assuming the Dwarves have dragged all the workers together, this is his first chance to see just how many there are. And there are a lot. Spotted all over the field are cages like his. He starts to get a sinking feeling when he realises that surrounding the cages are chairs. They’re locked in a cage, with clues that someone will be watching them. It can’t be good.

“Gerard!”

He twists towards the movement. It sounded like Jimmy. He hasn’t seen Jimmy since the Sirens traded them. 

It is Jimmy. And fuck, he’s got almost the entire choir with him. Patrick, Gabe, Singer and Bert are all sitting in a semi-circle together. And god only knows how it happened, but they’ve got one of the girls with them. Gerard hopes it’s Bebe, he likes her best of the five that they left with the Sirens. She’s wearing this epic dress, and he wants to hear her biting sarcasm when she tells him about the Sirens making them play dress up, so he picks his way through all the workers to go join them. From the front, it’s pretty obvious Brendon is not Bebe. He wants to apologise for making the mistake at first. Then Gerard reminds himself that no one apologised when the Sirens thought he was a girl, and doing drag isn’t shameful anyway.

The ground shakes and one of the Dragons makes its way towards the cages. Gerard tenses because those fuckers actually scare him. If you’d asked him before all this shit happened if he’d be afraid of a Dragon, Gerard would have said no, even Dragonslayer couldn’t make him fear Dragons. Sure they were bad ass, but nothing to get nervous over. Now though, it’s different because apparently real Dragons are nothing more than perfect land predators with a perchance for shiny, treasury type things.

More Dwarves follow in the Dragon’s wake. They’re carrying longer canes. Gerard has to squint to see better, but it looks like the tips of the longer canes are sharper than the ones he’s used to seeing. They’re also not as crooked.

Suddenly, there’s a loud noise of hoots and nasty laughter. What looks to be a flood’s worth of Goblins rush the field. Several have lit torches in their hands, the yellow-orange of the flame bounces when the Goblins jump or sway into each other. The rest of the Goblins have either wicked looking switches with them, sheathed short swords, or bows strapped to their backs next to quivers jammed full of black fettered arrows.

The Dwarves do nothing when the Goblins approach and Gerard’s really fucking worried now. Nothing good can come from Goblins showing up to mingle with the Dwarves and a Dragon. It’s not like they’re going to sit around a table playing Canasta while sipping tea. So in short, they’re all pretty much fucked. It’s just figuring out which particular flavor of fucked they are.

A portion of the Goblins jibber loudly before they rush towards one of the further away cages. Howling and what could only be called the Goblin equivalent of heckling fills the air around the cages as the Goblins start shaking the bars of the cage to frighten the worked shoved inside. More Dwarves show up, it’s possible they just finally made their way out of one of the mine shafts. They make a bee line for the cage the Goblins have selected. Gerard stiffens when he hears what they begin to chant. He can’t possibly be hearing the Dwarves chanting “Fight, Fight, Fight”, though it does make a perverse level of sense, especially with the massive, rusty cages. If Gerard gets out of this alive he’s never letting Mikey watch WrestleMania ever again, no matter how interesting it is.

It’s hard to see from his position, but he’s pretty sure no one in the surrounded cage is moving. The Goblins are getting agitated and some are jabbing their torches through the bars while a few of the Dwarves are using their sharp as fuck canes to purposefully poke at people to jab them into action. 

After several more minutes of nothing, the Goblins back away from the cage, spitting on the ground and angrily cursing as they do so. Besides take steps to move away from the cage, none of the Dwarves say anything. Hell, they don’t even look angry. Gerard’s guessing they expected something like this to happen. 

One of the Dwarves whistles loudly and the Dragon lifts its head from the ground to peer at the little, round man. In half a stride the Dragon is up and crashing into the cage. Metal bars crack and begin to collapse. When people start trying to climb through the gaps, the Dragon lunges and it’s like watching Jurassic Park all over again. Only this time it’s not the lawyer getting eaten by a T-Rex, it’s instead helpless teenagers and young adults getting munched on by a massive Dragon. 

No one in Gerard’s cage is saying anything. The only sounds now are the tapering off screams from the other cage and the occasional whimper or moan from the people around him watching and reacting. When he can’t take anymore, Gerard looks away.

“You fight, or you die. Is that clear?”

The Dwarf’s voice is steady and shot through with a steely tone of _you will not fuck with me, and you will do what I say_. As soon as the Dragon lumbers back to its previous resting spot, blood pooling onto the ground around its maw when it rests its head back down, the Goblins rush to another cage. Gerard exhales shakily, because holy fuck, they’re all going to die. 

He barely catches what happens in the cage, this one closer to theirs, because he’s trying to not panic. It’s not till he realizes that the Goblins are jibbering happily that he focuses in on the other cage. He can’t see everything too well, even with the closer view, but it looks like the people inside the cage are thrashing into each other and just generally trying to kill each other. It makes sense that once started, something so violent could spiral into something deadly. 

“Enough.”

The same Dwarf speaks again and slowly but surely everyone in the cage all but collapse from pain or exhaustion. Goblins bounce and hoot, their switches and torches flailing about. All of the spectators back away from the cage and Gerard notices all of the broken bodies littering the ground inside the cage. The scent of blood hangs heavily in the air and someone behind him gets sick. 

Ten Goblins form a line at the front of the cage and several Dwarves stand next to them while the main Dwarf opens the cage door. None of the survivors inside make an attempt to move and the Goblins rush in and start to drag people out by any limb they can reach. He Dwarves seem more casual about it, though they’re crueler because each and every one of the ten Dwarves grabs their slave by a fistful of hair and tugs until the person stands. 

None of the survivors are Dustin, or any of the girls. Gerard doesn’t know what that means. There are two more cages besides the one he’s inside. It’s possible they’re still alive.

It happens again with the third cage. The Goblins and Dwarves move into a different crowd of seats, the Dragon merely shifting it’s head for a better view. The word rings heavy through the air, and the forty begin to fight. Gerard doesn’t watch at all this time, just closes his eyes and tries to think about Transformers and Grama Elena and the last conversation he had with Mikey, as they were walking to school. He’d wanted to build a really sweet ass Gollem and make it go to gym class for him, Mikey had pointed out the inevitable flaw of not actually having a way to power it up. It’s hard to focus; he can hear the crowd jeering, he can hear Singer praying in English and Gabe in Spanish. He doesn’t need a language credit to hear muerte and know Gabe’s saying the 23rd psalm. He can hear the people in the cages screaming in rage and violence and horror and pain.

He doesn’t open his eyes again until Patrick speaks. Brendon’s curled into him, head on his shoulder. “Guys. We can survive this.”

“Yeah fucking right.”

“We can. The last twenty people standing live. We’re seven. We can make it, we just have to watch each other’s backs.” He’s whispering, like it’s a strategy, like it’s a fucking game on Survivor or Big Brother. “Get close to the walls. Not too close, don’t want anyone to crack a skull against the bars. But don’t let anyone sneak up behind you.”

Gerard wants to puke. Fighting to the death, how can he possibly do this? He doesn’t even win in Wii boxing. Bert puts his hand on his knee. “Come on man. Fight or die, you heard them. You think Mikey wants you to die?”

It helps, a little. He agrees to the alliance.

It’s when the Dwarves move to the fourth cage that all hell breaks loose. Instead of following, bouncing and giddy, the Goblins break into two masses. One group goes for the larger gang of Dwarves standing around and the rest make for one of the other cages. 

Everything becomes a flurry of action as the Goblins use their short swords and torches to fight the Dwarves. The Dwarves don’t play nicely though and they’re just as bloody and malicious with their canes as the Goblins are with their swords. Apparently, the Goblins got tired of having to wait for their rewards and think it’s a good idea to try and screw the Dwarves and Dragons over. For some reason the Dragon doesn’t move. It’s head lazily tracks everything that’s going on, but it makes no move to do anything. None of the Goblins approach it either, they’re probably too busy with the Dwarves and the remaining cages. All anyone is doing in the cages is standing and trying to move out of the sprays of blood. It’s not right, Gerard thinks. They should be doing something.

“Everyone!” Not enough people are listening to him, so Gerard pulls on every lesson Mr Parker ever taught them about projection and tries again. “EVERYBODY.” Better. At least thirty of them are looking at him now. “The goblins are going to open the door, and we need to fucking run.”

Gabe snorts. “Did the Dwarves not kill the protesters in your part of the mine? Cause they did in mine!” 

Already he’s losing people’s attention. It’s not right. They can’t want to stay in the cage and let the Dragons keep them. How can you Stockholm with creatures? “We need to fucking run!”

“We need to stay alive!”

Bert crosses his arms. “Die today trying to escape, or die after thirty years in the mines! It’s not a hard choice, fuckface!”

Gabe looks like he might hit Bert, but then the Goblin is burning the lock off the door -the metal lock, it must be magical fire- and Gerard screams “RUNNN.” Even if it’s just him and Bert, they’re going to get the fuck out of here.

Gerard doesn’t look behind himself when he starts to run. He’s holding Bert’s hand, and he hopes everyone else is with them, all thirty eight. But he doesn’t have time to look back. There are Dwarves and Goblins everywhere, running directly into one would not be the cutesy television trope of bumping into your crush and your notes scattering.

“Holy shit that Dwarf cut that guy’s head off with a sword!” 

It’s Patrick’s voice, Gerard is sure of it. He doesn’t have anything helpful to say, but he says it anyway. “Run faster! As fast as you can! Run run run.”

It’s not a huge surprise when Gabe and a bunch of the foreign boys overtake them. Gerard’s not an athlete, and whether or not Bert is, he’s still clinging to his hand. Soon enough though, Gabe slows down. “I don’t think anyone’s chasing us, and I didn’t want to lose you guys. What the fuck do we do now?”

“Wait until everyone catches up,” Bert decides. Gerard’s glad it’s not advice he has to argue. His adrenaline is waning, leaving him tired.

Some that catch up don’t stop, just keep running. Gerard yells after them to stop, to wait, but they don’t listen. He doesn’t even know if they speak English. Brendon comes to a halt with Patrick behind him, both of them swearing. Patrick’s helping Brendon hold up the skirt of his insanely full dress. Another three run by and Gerard shouts in desperation “come with us! I can lead you to freedom!”

Gabe snorts. “Who the fuck are you, Braveheart?”

Bert scowls, spitting before answering him. “Gerard would look good in a plaid skirt.”

That’s when Singer makes it to them. “I'm glad you guys are happy talking drag tips, but I just got _shot in the ass _. My ass. Is _bleeding_.”__

__Gabe smirks. “That always happens your first time. Use lube next time.”_ _

__“Dude, when we’re back in Jersey and don’t have to rely on each other for survival, I’m going to punch you in the face. Just so you know.” Bert says. Gerard thinks Bert has remarkable restraint._ _

__They wait a few more minutes. Jimmy is the last of the guys Gerard knows. When he joins the group he has a sword. Gerard has no idea how he got it, it seemed like only one in ten had them, surely even if the original bearer died another would have plucked it out of his cooling bloody hands. When there are no runners on the horizon, he turns around and counts. Their party is now fifteen. Dustin didn’t make it, and they’ve picked up eight foreign guys. Everyone else has either run past, or is presumably dead. Gerard doesn’t quite have it in him to mourn. The people he knows are with him, and the people he loves are either back on Earth, or searching for him. Gerard still thinks it’s the second. He hasn’t fully been sapped of hope. Mikey has always been his little brother._ _

__Gabe turns to one of the new boys. He’s the stereotypical Russian; black hair, hard jaw, dark clothing. He looks like he could be wearing a fur hat and modelling for Smirnoff. Gerard drops his face onto Bert’s shoulder as he starts to talk. At least it can’t be an international incident if neither of them are in their home country. “I’m gonna call you Boris.”_ _

__“For fuck sakes, don’t name the Russians.”_ _

__The Russian spits out ‘fuck you’ in perfect English. It’s accented, but British, not Russian. Gabe just smirks. It’s gonna be a long walk. Hopefully they can come across creatures willing to help them. Like Lars’ species of Dragon. From what Gerard knows, Coastal Dragons are pretty cool. If they can’t they’ll probably starve to death._ _

__*_ _

__Fuck, Fuck, motherfucking fuck. A rock crunches under his shoe and gets violently kicked to the side without any thought. Pete’s having trouble concentrating on relevant things, like watching where he’s going or paying attention to their surroundings. He hasn’t fallen yet and everyone else can deal with figuring out where they’re going. He’s too wrapped up in thinking worse case scenarios._ _

__The Coastal Dragons were useful, if haughty and dickish. Pete could actually care less if they liked to hunt down their own kind and wear their kill’s skin as a coat. All that mattered was the fact that they had an idea, even if it was off handedly, of where Patrick and the rest of the choir members were._ _

__Land Dragons in league with mountain Dwarves apparently like to take, barter, and steal away healthy teenagers to work in the mines. There’s a disconnect in Pete’s head at the idea. He can’t fathom someone wanting to press Patrick into manual labor. Not someone who wasn’t expecting to get punched in the face for their efforts. However, the Coastal Dragons seemed to be of the belief that resisting got you killed. The orange one who’d told them the particulars had sounded bored and matter-of-fact about what she’d seen. She’d also hissed something pretentious about Land Dragons being heathen and uncivilized before flying off when she was finished._ _

__William’s been walking by his side for maybe fifteen minutes by now, Pete doesn’t know and doesn’t care to find out. He was doing just fine without someone sliding up and deciding to try and play babysitter. He doesn’t need a minder, he needs Patrick. Preferably, an angry, only slightly dirty Patrick, who’ll bitch at him for taking too long with the rescue mission. Thinking about anything else greeting him when they finally find their friends is not acceptable._ _

__Doesn’t mean his thoughts can’t help but supply helpful images of Patrick dying in a million different ways. Fuck. His fingers clench, and Pete has to shove them into the tight pockets of his dark jeans because if he doesn’t he might punch one of the stubby, short trees in the center of their trunk the next time he passes one. The last thing he needs is to break his hand, when there’s no telling what they’ll have -need- to do to help their friends out of the mines._ _

__“Everything okay?” William’s voice is a whisper that the wind almost carries away when it decides to kick up. There’s worry and something Pete can’t define lacing those two words and they only makes him agitated and absolutely livid._ _

__“Of course everything’s fine. Just FUCKING PEACHY. My best friend could be dead, stuck under a million tons of dirt. Or eaten by hungry dragons, but yeah, I’M OKAY.” Pete’s voice is probably just this side of too loud and there’s an edge of almost hysteria threading through his words. He can’t help it. Better question is how the fucking hell is everyone else holding their shit together more than he is?_ _

__“Pete...” William’s going to try and mollify him or be optimistic at him and that’s the last thing he wants at the moment. He doesn’t want to hear William’s fucking patronizing tone, so he cuts him off._ _

__“What if he was beaten to death with sticks? Or stoned? I bet they don’t have canaries in this fucking place. Patrick, hell, fucking all of them could have suffocated from gas leaking into the mines. So don’t fucking try and tell me to calm down, or ask me if I’m fine. I’m not, and I'm not going to be.”_ _

__Pete really wants to punch one of those trees now, but none of them are close enough. Everyone’s looking at him. Most of them look unhappy for whatever reasons they have bottled up in their own heads. Ryan glares at him. “Shut the fuck up. Patrick’s not Kenny from South Park and this isn’t a copy of the Darwin awards...”_ _

__Spencer steps closer to Ryan and finishes his sentence for him. “This isn’t helping us or Patrick. We need to keep moving.” Spencer’s got a point, but Pete’s still wound the fuck up. Out of the corner of his eye he sees their Dwarf guide._ _

__Fucking Dwarves. It’s all their fault. If they didn’t exist, the Land Dragons would have no way of collecting people._ _

__Pete’s sprinting forward before he can really think about what he’s doing. “This is all your fault.”_ _

__The only reason the Dwarf goes down is because he’s not expecting Pete to tackle him. Before Pete can take advantage of the situation and the rage boiling through his body though, strong hands grip him around the shoulders and tug him back. Cash is standing next to the Dwarf, muttering something angry that Pete can’t hear over the rushing sound still flooding his ears. All he has to do is break free and the fucking Dwarf can go down again. It’s as easy as that._ _

__“Fucking chill, Pete. Chill.” It’s Travis’ voice and Pete couldn’t care less._ _

__“If it wasn’t for them, Patrick wouldn’t be in danger of drowning in puddles of mucky water or impaled on a stalagmite.”_ _

__“Yeah, and if it wasn’t the Dwarves, I’m sure the Sirens or some other really _nice_ creatures would have been fucking proper hosts to them. Pull it the fuck together Wentz.” Bob doesn’t seem happy having to wade into the conversation, but then everyone’s on edge._ _

__“Fuck this shit. I am not staying around and listening to this bullshit. I’m going to go scout out in front of us.” Lars flutters his wings and drops down from his perch on Ryland’s shoulder before catching a gust of wind and flying over the crest of the nearest hill in front of them. The sound of thunder rolls across the sky and Pete finally notices the fact that a storm’s trying it’s best to vie for attention. Of fucking course. All they need is torrential rains and the threat of being fried by lightning to make this day even better than it already was._ _

__*_ _

__Brendon’s tired, but he’s not willing to voice his opinion. Everyone else looks just as ragged as he feels yet they keep walking, only occasionally stopping to catch their breath or drink from a tiny stream if it looks clean enough. Patrick sticks close to him and Brendon’s grateful for it. He’d probably fall a million more times if Patrick wasn’t near to steady him. The material of his dress keeps him from taking longer strides, but he keeps forgetting and trying anyways._ _

__He’s resolutely not thinking about the warm feelings that like to play with his emotions when Patrick doesn’t glare at him for being a nuisance or refrains from snapping at him for falling again. He’s only going to have a little longer with Patrick before Pete’s there, there’s no sense in muddying that up with emotions. It’s hard enough preparing for what might happen when they meet the group Patrick and Gabe and Gerard are sure are looking for them._ _

__Thanks to his parents, Brendon already has problems feeling wanted. It would suck if he was the only one in their ragged group of survivors with no one caring about what happens to them. Everyone else has someone, at least one person, who’s worried sick or around Otherworld somewhere looking for them. It would be great if Ryan and Spencer were amongst them, but Brendon’s gotten used to not deluding himself. It’s easier to just accept the worst than getting his hopes up, only for them to be dashed against sharp rocks, time and time again._ _

__“My ass has had enough walking for right now.” It’s all the warning Alex gives before he throws himself to the grass, laying on his stomach of course._ _

__Brendon drops to the ground with a tiny sigh of a breath. He should be worried about Alex. On some level he is, but once they’d realized it was only a graze, not a full on ass shot, the wound got downgraded from perilous to just a painful inconvenience like the raw skin around some of the others’ ankles. Things will only get worse though if they don’t get home. There’s a huge chance that the open wounds will attract infections. Watching one of the choir members die of a fever after surviving everything else would be just awful._ _

__Patrick sits next to him and Brendon automatically leans into his space. The weather’s warm and they’re all dirty and sweaty from the mines and walking but Patrick doesn’t seem to mind so Brendon’s not going to back away. Patrick’s distracting and there are things he’d rather not think about. Like how badly his feet hurt. He’s the only one without shoes. Brendon would bet money, if he had any, that the cuts and scrapes and blisters scattered across the bottom of his feet are another reason he keeps tripping and stumbling. He won’t say anything though, he can deal until they get home._ _

__“Fucking hell I’m hungry. Anyone else wish we were back with the Sirens? Thirty thousand pounds of mashed bananas, thank you Harry Chapin. I could go for some fucking butterscotch from Kesha, even.”_ _

__“Mikey will have food,” Gerard says resolutely._ _

__“That’s all nice and well for him, but what do we care?”_ _

__“Because he’s looking for me. For us. And Frank and Ray and maybe Bob.”_ _

__Gabe snorts, and Brendon catches Bert glaring at him. Singer groans from a few feet away. “My friends aren't coming with food. I mean, they will come looking. But then some Pixie is going to ask if they want to get high and they'll say yes and sit their asses down. They'll make it like ten feet into fucking Otherworld.”_ _

__“Your friends suck.” Gabe laughs._ _

__“At least ours are coming.”_ _

__“Oh, mine will too. They just won’t have thought to bring food. They’ll have like, sunglasses,and vodka. But hey, at least it’ll be something to make Boris happy, right?”_ _

__“My name isn’t Boris!”_ _

__“Of course it is, Boris. No need to be ashamed.” Gabe goes on but Brendon lets himself tune out. Gabe sort of talks a lot, and doesn’t say a lot in those words. Patrick’s shoulder is the nicer option._ _

__Eventually, the wind kicks up and begins to blow harder than it was before and they have to start walking again. The clouds above them are a sickly shade of gray and teal and the last thing they need is to be stuck out in the open during severe weather. Patrick stands and bends to help him up. He frowns when Brendon winces at being back up on his feet. Thankfully he doesn’t say anything, just leans closer and lets Brendon use him as a crutch._ _

__Patrick’s arm is solid around his waist and it’s comforting. Brendon shakes his head to dislodge the thought because he can’t think this way or he’ll get hurt. As soon as they find Pete, Patrick’ll be pulled away from him. It’s just the natural order of things, even if Patrick used to angrily mutter during choir practices that Pete wasn’t his boyfriend. Annoying, pain in the ass best friend yes, annoying boyfriend no. Brendon’s not sure Pete shares that opinion._ _

__The wind keeps kicking up and the shin high grasses and weeds that patchily spot the massive clearing they’ve trudging across whip around them. Some of the more prickly blades get stuck in the material of Brendon’s dress and Patrick has to help him untangle himself. If the smaller blades of matted down grass weren’t sharp as tiny knives scraping against his feet, Brendon’d probably be more put upon by the taller grass making his bare ankles itch and trying to hold him still._ _

__Hills roll around them, as do the clouds that move over them, and Brendon’s feeling pretty confident that soon they’re all going to be drenched in heavy rain. The only cover around as far as the eye can see, are twisted saplings with barely enough leaves to be considered more than a stunted tree at best. Plus, trees attract lightning and that’s the last thing they all need, to be zapped by electricity after surviving Sirens, Dragons, Dwarves, and Goblins._ _

__They crest one gentle slope and the grass shrinks down to nothing more than short, soft shag. It’s way better than the grass’s taller kin behind them. No one seems to notice that Brendon’s bleeding tiny dots across the green, green surface. Brendon can barely see the bloody footprints himself, the light bathing the meadow is dim from the cloud cover. He’s certain though. His feet feel sticky, so he has to have started bleeding again. If they get out of here he’s not going to be able to walk for a week, which is going to suck because he can’t miss school or his shifts at work. Well, that’s if he still has a job. It’s possible he’s missed way too many days already and they’ve fired him._ _

__The hills meet and melt into a small meandering valley, and once again the scope of distance around them is limited. Not that Brendon can make out most of the landscape anyway, he’s still without his glasses. The sound of wings rustling pulls his attention to the left and he has to blink several times. There’s a small, frosty blue Dragon on the ground in front of him._ _

__Huffing curses spill from the Dragon’s mouth, along with tiny slips of grey smoke. Brendon stares because the Dragon is cute. Not all Dragons have to be like Maleficent’s, or the Dragons in the caves, right? He shouldn’t be thinking about Disney’s perspective on mythical creatures and plot devices because they’ve been proven wrong at every turn, but the Dragon is talking and is small. Brendon can’t help but think about Mulan and Mushu, even if this Dragon doesn’t have horns, is bluish in color instead of red, and has more of a frill than any type of spiky fringe trailing down its neck. Not to mention the fact that the Dragon’s wearing some sort of modified black shirt. Dragons don’t normally wear clothing._ _

__Patrick’s to his right. After a moment he turns to see what Brendon’s looking at, what’s keeping him from moving. Brendon knows the moment he spots the Dragon, because Patrick stiffens at his side and sort of makes this unhappy hiss of a sound. Gabe either hears the sound or notices that they’re stopped because he strides up, sees the Dragon, and starts to curse. It only takes him a second to get proactive. He continues to swear as he stoops to pick up pebbles and the random rock or two to throw at the Dragon._ _

__One of the rocks bounces off the Dragon’s nose and it shakes it off before glaring at them. “Fucking hell asshole, stop that shit.”_ _

__Before Gabe can yell at the Dragon to leave and throw more rocks at it, Gerard runs up, Bert following at his side. Gerard pushes Gabe back some, not violently, just enough to catch his attention._ _

__“That’s Lars, dickbag. He’s a friend.”_ _

__Gerard slips around Patrick and kneels close to the Dragon. In the distance there’s shouting. Brendon stares squinting for clarity. There’s no way he’s seeing things right. There’s a group of people walking towards them and he’s pretty sure he sees Ray Toro. There’s no mistaking that guy’s hair. The sound of thunder makes him jump a little._ _

__“Fuck me, the assholes didn’t get waylaid by drug peddling Pixies.” Alex winces when he tries to move too fast and ends up stretching the bandage somewhat covering his wound. The group gets closer and Brendon can make out familiar faces. There’s also a surly looking Dwarf. After the last weeks, spotting it attempts to make his adrenaline spike. It doesn’t really work. As much as his nervous brain would like his body to freak, his system is running on fumes._ _

__Pete damn near almost tackles Patrick to the ground when he sprints forward and tries to climb Patrick almost as if he’s one of the stunted saplings dotting the landscape around them. Brendon stumbles and tries to not make a sound when he rocks on his feet at the motion. Maybe someone has a spare pair of shoes in their pack that he might be able to borrow, because there’s no way he’s going to be able to stand much longer without some form of protection against the ground._ _

__Pete’s movement is like the first guy at a baseball stadium starting the wave; everyone else starts to run. Brendon watches Cash Colligan tackle Alex, three others climbing on to make a dog pile. Brendon can barely hear him shouting under the pile of people. “Fucking ow, get off! Cash get off! Do not fucking glomp me, I got shot in the ass!” They scramble off at that, and then Alex smiles. “But thanks for coming.”_ _

__None seem impressed. Cash shouts “you thought we wouldn’t?”_ _

__Johnson shakes his head. “Not cool man. Gotta keep the faith.”_ _

__All thoughts about evil Dwarf accompaniment, how he was right about Patrick and Pete, and hopes to get his hands on a pair of shoes that might fit his feet leave his head when Ryan and Spencer walk up. Brendon’s almost afraid he’s imagining things. They can’t have really crossed into Otherworld just to find him?_ _

__His knees buckle and Spencer quickly steps close enough to keep him from crashing to the ground. Another crack of thunder booms loudly around them and the loud noise of everyone trying to talk at the same time is only barely drowned out by the thunder._ _

__“Hey, you okay?” Spencer whispers. Brendon nods. His cheeks feel wet, he’s crying without meaning to. Spencer lets him cling without trying to push him away and he’s belatedly aware of the fact that Patrick’s dragged Pete close and they’re sitting next to him, Patrick disentangling himself from Pete enough that he can get a hand free enough to curl his fingers with Brendon’s._ _

__Ryan makes a half way annoyed coughing sound and Spencer pulls away enough that Ryan can slide down to the ground next to him. Something thin and black gets shoved into front of Brendon’s face and he has to blink several times to realize that Ryan brought his spare pair of glasses with them. The bridge holding the frames together is broken and there’s tape wrapped around it to keep them together, but Brendon couldn't care less right now. Ryan says something stuffy about Brendon being important to the band and how they couldn’t leave him to waste away in a foreign land, but he’s not really paying attention, because he can see again. Well, kinda. His eyes are still wet enough that it’s hard to see through the lenses without blinking half a dozen times._ _

__All around him, the rest of the choir are hugging their friends. Everyone’s exhausted and they’re starving, but that can wait for the moment. They’re finally with their friends and things can only look up from here._ _

__That’s when it happens. Brendon’s not the first to notice. He doesn’t even look up until Singer starts shrieking. The Dwarf is standing much closer now, close enough that the other choir members have spotted him. Bert looks at Gerard like he’s waiting for him to lay claim to it like he did with the Dragon -Lars, apparently- and when he doesn’t he starts yelling at Quinn to kill it. Gabe does one better; he wrenches away from his group hug to start throwing more rocks._ _

__Brendon wants to believe that they haven’t been followed. Logically he knows they probably haven’t been, the Dwarf is coming from the opposite direction. From their friends’ direction. He still feels like puking, even as Cash explains that he had to fight him in order to pass a bridge to get to them. Brendon’s not the only one that shudders at the idea of fighting a Dwarf, conditioning settling over him. Gerard looks impressed though. He always was the type to fight the man._ _

__Intelligently speaking, it’s probably good that they have one of the enemy in their control. It still makes him feel better when Patrick squeezes his hand._ _

__*_ _

__They have Gerard back. It repeats in Frank’s head over and over again, and every time it does he can’t help but look over at Gerard, who’s currently linking arms with Mikey. It’s hardly a unique sight. Quinn, Jepha, Dan and Bert are in a group hug. Nate and Gabe are making out. Spencer and Ryan are sprawled on the grass beside Brendon, Ryan holding Brendon’s hand and barely scowling as Spencer bandages Brendon’s feet. Frank’s not entirely sure why he’s in a Ren Faire dress, but figures it’s one of the many stories that will come out when one of them makes a We Survived Otherworld Facebook group._ _

__Frank wants his turn clinging to Gee. He’s sure Ray and Bob do too. But they’ll all have to wait until Mikey is done. Which will probably be some time next year. The Ways were co-dependent before, after this they’re going to handcuff each other or something. Because he’s a good friend he doesn’t butt in on their reconnecting, just stands and watches everyone else._ _

__It’s all pleasant and homecomingy until Lars takes off from Ryland’s shoulder. All the former captives except Gerard flinch. Lars hovers at about head level as he begins to talk._ _

__“I don’t know if you all know this, but from this side any race can open a tear. I want to go, I haven’t listen to music in weeks. Besides, while I’m guessing right now Cousin Ned is roasting the Dwarves and Goblins for fucking shit up, there’s a chance they might follow half-assedly. Not enough to care to track anyone down on Earth, so don’t get all paranoid. But it’s probably better if we weren’t standing here for three days. So if no one has objections, I’m going to open a hole and we can all go the fuck home.”_ _

__Cash raises his arm like he’s in school. “Actually, objection.”_ _

__“What? No. Cash? No.” Johnson’s been jumpy since the Selkies, not that Frank blames him._ _

__“Jimmy’s friends are with the Pixies right now. They’re waiting for him. We need to go take him there.”_ _

__“But that was like two weeks ago!”_ _

__“There is no way we have enough food to walk for two more weeks. We’ve got like ten new mouths to feed.”_ _

__Ryan says sternly “we can’t. Brendon can’t walk.”_ _

__“Gerard’s not walking either!”_ _

__Frank automatically looks at Pete and Patrick. Since the assembly it’s been a battle of who’s more co-dependent. Pete doesn’t even seem like he’s listening to the conversation. Each of his five senses is focusing on Patrick. That’ll make things interesting for Brendon and by proxy Spencer and Ryan. There’s no way Pete hasn’t noticed Patrick is holding the hand Ryan isn’t._ _

__“I know. So what I was thinking was I order the Dwarf to take Jimmy there safely, as the last order of his debt.”_ _

__“Oh _fuck_ no. I am not going on a two week walking road trip with a Dwarf. Dwarves made me a slave, Dwarves nearly dissolved Brendon, Dwarves shot Singer in the ass. I can’t trust that fucker!”_ _

__Pete looks like he wants to high five Jimmy. Frank knows he won’t though. He hasn’t stopped clinging to Patrick since they got close enough for it, a high five isn’t nearly a good enough reason to let go._ _

__“You don’t have to trust him. You can take the gun. The dudebros won’t need it. They had an untimely death because they’re fucking stupid.”_ _

__“That...actually sounds a lot better. Who’s there?”_ _

__“Uh. Steve and Lyn-Z and Kitty?”_ _

__“Shit, the whole gang. Kick ass. Let’s go then. And if you even look at me, I’m popping a cap.”_ _

__Frank’s happy Jimmy’s about to get his happy ending. He’s even happier though that his own won’t take two weeks. They’ll step through Lars’ doorway, he’ll bus home, and he’ll be grounded for six months but he’ll see Gerard at school. It’ll all be fine._ _

__“Another objection,” Gabe calls out. His arms are crossed as he looks Lars in the eye. For his part, Lars doesn’t seem very impressed either. “We also need to find the girls. The Sirens killed Sheena, but we need to go get Maja and Bebe. Er, and Melanie and Greta and Hayley, I guess.”_ _

__“You won’t find them,” Lars answers, voice oddly sorrowful. Frank has known Lars for a while, he can’t remember the last time he sounded sad._ _

__“What are you talking about?”_ _

__“Sirens use female kidnappees to propagate their species. Any girl that’s not dead is a Siren. They probably were days after you were traded to the Dwarves.”_ _

__“But, we can like, change them back? There’s a spell, or they’ll automatically go when they’re back through the tear.”_ _

__“I’m sorry Singer. No. It’s one of the things you don’t come back from. Now we need to go. Please.”_ _

__Three things occur to Frank in rapid succession as he steps through the rip. The first is _holy shit_ he hit his dad and ran away from home. His incredibly grounding-worthy actions suddenly seem a lot more real now that he’s back. The second is he needs to pee, but on Earth turning away from the crowd to go in public is no longer an option. The third is this is not the area the Changeling led them too._ _

__Patrick is the first to speak. “Did none of you drive here? Seriously, we have to walk?”_ _

__“My phone works. I’m texting Alicia right _now_.”_ _

__“I don’t think I can walk. My feet are pretty messed. Can I hitch a ride?”_ _

__“Mikey, map app, stat! What’s the closest coffee place?” It’s Gerard that says it, but the idea of coffee sends shivers through the entire crowd._ _

__“Uh. It says we’re in South Carolina?”_ _

__“South Carolina? What the fuck.” Bob scowls. Frank wants to crawl up his body to cheer him up, but on second thought that would probably cheer himself up more than Bob. “What the fuck.”_ _

__Gabe grins. “Sucks to be you.”_ _

__“Sucks to be all of us, asshole. You see a bus stop anywhere?”_ _

__“Fuck. More fucking walking. When I get home I’m never walking again. Jesus.”_ _

__Frank shares Quinn’s sentiment. It’s why he hops on Bob’s back and shouts “piggyback!”_ _

__When Bob’s elbows go out and he escapes, everyone’s watching like they’re expecting Bob to hit him. Frank himself is half expecting it, though the memory of actual pain always seems to escape him until it’s too late. If he actually remembered he probably wouldn’t bother Bob as much. What he’s not expecting is for Bob to turn and kiss him. Frank doesn’t get much tongue in. If there’s anything it’s because his mouth is open in shock, not because he’s trying to._ _

__Bob pulls away and licks his lips. Frank’s hand goes automatically to his mouth._ _

__“You’re such an asshole.” Contrary to the angry statement, Bob is smiling. The grin stays even as he pushes him hard and sudden enough that Frank falls to the grass. It’s hard to care though, when Bob drops on top of him, drags his arms above his head and holds them there with one hand curled around his wrists. Frank can hear Mikey laughing, but Bob’s mouth is on his again, so fuck Mikey._ _

__*_ _

__Spencer sighs. It’s freakin' typical that he’s back in the United States, and still they need to walk cross country. Nothing can ever be easy when it has a chance to be a pain in the ass._ _

__Ryan starts up a conversation which frankly probably could have waited about a year. “So, what happened to you? Anything we could write lyrics about?”_ _

__“I worked in a mine, Ryan. Unless we want to do a Hie Ho mash up with something-”_ _

__“Mash ups are below us.”_ _

__“Good then. What about your adventure? Any fun times on your side of it?” There’s an edge to Brendon’s voice that was never there before, Spencer can’t help but wonder if it’ll be there forever._ _

__Spencer decides to take this one. It’s safer if he doesn’t give Ryan a chance to say something stupid. “Nothing for the band. Unless we wanna turn queercore.”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“Well, Ryan and I had relations, you’re wearing a dress, Lyn-Z Ballato kept trying to start up circlejerks, we watched Melanie’s lesbian best friends go at it.”_ _

__“Zoe and Gina,” Ryan adds, like he actually saw it._ _

__“And then half a mile back, Frank Iero and Bob Bryar are definitely having sex.”_ _

__“And if you look up front, Bert and Gerard are holding hands. Though Bert’s kinda weird, so maybe his hands are just cold and he thinks it’s okay.”_ _

__“I wasn’t aware that Otherworld was gonna turn everyone queer, is all I’m saying. So unless we want some profound stage gay, how about we don’t make a Live In Otherworld CD?”_ _

__“I like Patrick,” Brendon blurts. “I mean I know it doesn’t matter because Pete, but I do. Is that going to be a problem? Because I can try to stop, really, I would. I-”_ _

__Spencer rolls his eyes and interrupts Brendon before he gets any more stupid. “Did you not hear the me and Ryan had relations bit? It would be hypocritical as fuck, don’t you think?”_ _

__“Not that we’re crushing. It was kind of an accident. But still. And I really don’t think we can rule stage gay out already. We should at least ask Brent.”_ _

__“Right, because Brent’s gonna wanna make out with you.”_ _

__“If it gets someone to buy our merch, I don’t see why not.”_ _

__“Is it selling out if we don’t even have an EP yet?”_ _

__“We’ll be ready to record soon. At least if Brent’s kept up practicing. I fucking swear if he hasn’t, then-” At that, Spencer starts to drift out. If Brendon is smirking the ‘Ryan Ross never shuts up’ smirk, and Ryan is complaining about the band, it’s enough of an assurance for Spencer. They can’t be that traumatized if it’s the same conversation as ever. Spencer’s got his friends, that’s all that really matters._ _


End file.
